


The Wolf and the Doe

by Armengard



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe, Ancient Greece, Assassin's Creed: Odyssey, Bodyguard, Canon-Typical Violence, Cult of Kosmos (Assassin's Creed), F/F, Feels, Gratuitous Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 53,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25072252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Armengard/pseuds/Armengard
Summary: Aspasia, renowned intellectual socialite, political advocate to the birth of democracy, and wife of Perikles, de-facto ruler of the great city of Athens, find herself in need of amisthios,and then hires herself quite possibly the worst one in all of Ancient Greece.
Relationships: Aspasia (c. 470-400 BCE)/Kassandra (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 71
Kudos: 433





	1. To Hire a Misthios

Of all the dozens, no, _hundreds_ of places in the mighty city of Athens that Aspasia had ever imagined herself setting foot, a city prison—or, more specifically, _this_ particular prison; filthy, cramped and stinking, located near the docks of the Port of Poraeus, just past the poorer markets on the city’s western side—was, indeed, the very last on that lengthy list. Though her husband, Perikles, had ruled over their great and vast city for a number of years, commanding powerful armies, delegating democracy, law and punishment over the citizens of Athens with justice, intelligence and grace, and threw the most lavish of celebrations for his people, his esteemed partner, fellow socialite and devoted wife had never before seen the need to enter such a foul, degrading place as this. 

Until today, that was.

Aspasia herself was not the only one surprised by this event. The city jailor, an unkempt, bearded, shaggy-haired man, snorted awake when she rapped her knuckles against the table he was currently sprawled face-down upon, upsetting a messy pile of ledgers, and goggled at her for the span of several long seconds before—to Aspasia’s chagrin—recognizing her, and realizing, yes, this was indeed the wife of Perikles, de facto ruler of all of Athens, standing there before him, and jerked himself clumsily upright.

“M-my lady!” he gasped out, standing so quickly his chair nearly tipped over. He flailed, grabbed it and set it back on all four legs, bowing again and again, laughing nervously. “F-forgive my impudence! I was merely, er—resting my eyes!”

Aspasia remained silent. She had learned, throughout her lengthy time in the high-flung Athenian court and in dealings with the complicated intricacies of the politics within, that a response was not always needed, especially when a question had not yet been asked.

Predictably, the jailor floundered, as though at a loss as to why the wife of the most arguably powerful man in Athens should have the need to grace his pitiful establishment with her presence—and in disguise, no less, her golden jewelry foregone and her regal bearing hidden only somewhat successfully in plain white lengths of draping cloth and leather sandals. “Wha—ah, to—to what do I owe the honor of your presence within my—my most humble of—?”

“I am here,” Aspasia said firmly, cutting off his rambling, “to hire a _misthios_.”

Her request, however simple it may have been, appeared to flummox the jailor even further. “A _misthios_?” he repeated, and spread his hands. “Here? Why, within my cells you will find nothing but the lowest of scum, my lady. Criminals no better than barbarians. Or worse, _Spartans_.” He laughed loudly, as though that were a very humorous joke. Aspasia merely raised an eyebrow, expression blank. The jailor cut off his chortles with a strained cough, then appeared to think for a moment. 

“My lady, if you would allow me to make a suggestion. Go to the coliseum,” he said, sounding as though he were very pleased with himself for coming up with the idea. “There you will find no shortage of fierce, courageous warriors who will gladly take any amount of coin to serve you.”

This, Aspasia had already considered, and, after much careful thought, discarded, for the same reason she was dressed so plainly today. “I do not want a famous _misthios_ ,” Aspasia said. “Or one to be so easily recognized. I do not want it announced all across Athens that I am suddenly seeking to hire one, you see.” It went unspoken that for Aspasia to be witnessed openly dealing with such dregs of the mighty warrior class would be terribly inappropriate. She had done her best to go about unrecognized so far today, and kept from the main roads and thoroughfares as she traveled within the city. In fact, the jailor standing before her now had been the first to recognize her since she had set out from her villa early that morning, when it was still dark. “The _misthios_ I seek must be unknown in Athens, but also skilled enough in the art of war and the ways of fighting to adequately serve my needs.”

The ingratiating smile on the jailor’s face began to wilt. “Unknown… _and_ talented? My lady, those two simply do not appear together.” He scratched the back of his head. “Perhaps—”

“It must also be a woman,” Aspasia found herself saying, though she had not decided until that moment that was what she wanted. Still, the idea, though sudden, appealed to her. A female _misthios_ would be able to enter many private sanctums a male simply could not, at least not without arousing interest. 

“So, then,” said the jailor slowly. “A... female _misthios_ who is talented, yet not well known within the city.” He grimaced and took another moment to think. Then, as Aspasia was preparing herself for disappointment, his eyes lit up, and suddenly he smiled and said, “By the gods. ...I have just the one for you. Come!”

With that, he fetched his jangling ring of iron keys on a loop and led her further into the bowels of the prison. Aspasia followed, struggling to keep her expression smooth. The cells they stepped past were stuffed to bursting with horrid looking thieves and brutes. Some were slumped sleeping on the ground in their own filth, others fighting or glaring balefully at her from beyond the bars of their cells. One or two shouted and made filthy comments to her, or tried to swipe at the edge of her robes, to which the jailor rapped their heads or hands with a stout cudgel on his belt, shouting for order. 

At last, they reached a room separate from the others. The jailor unlocked a thick wooden door promptly and pushed it open, so Aspasia may enter first.

Wary, Aspasia stepped inside. The cell was dark and stuffy and smelled foul, as if something had died inside several days ago and had not yet been removed. Damp, dirty hay was scattered across the floor. Chains and shackles hung limp from the walls. A pile of detritus was heaped in one dark corner, and nearby, a bucket filled with rotted food lay on its side, a cloud of flies buzzing above it.

“Where is my _misthios_?” Aspasia demanded, whirling around to the jailor and feeling a moment of alarm. Had the man brought her down here to assassinate her, wife of Athens' head? It had been foolish of her to follow him so blithely, especially after what had happened to Perikles only a few months ago—

But the jailor did not produce a knife from his sleeve, or call lurking cut-throats from the shadows. Instead, he crossed the cell to the dark corner and kicked the dirty bundle on the floor, which grunted and then, to Aspasia’s surprise, sat up. It was not detritus at all, but a person. In the light of the flickering torches, Aspasia saw for the first time the woman who would soon be dedicating her life to her, if all went as planned. 

Aspasia’s initial impression was that she was absolutely filthy. She could not quite remember the last time she had smelled something so bad. Most of the heavy stench was made up of the powerfully sour tang of spoiled wine—a terrible vintage, by the sharp, acrid scent, no better than rotten grapes left to further ruin in the sun—while the rest was composed of a combination of musty horse sweat, old blood and unwashed flesh. 

The woman’s clothes—if they could be called that—were ripped and dirty, little more than a simple, frayed _chiton_ cut above the knees, and her hair was snarled, unruly brown strands barely contained in a sloppy braid that rested on her left shoulder. There was dried blood on her knuckles and by the dull, glassy look in her eyes, she had been deep in her cups the night before, if not earlier this morning. 

“ _Maláka_ ,” growled the woman, squinting in the torchlight. “Let me sleep, damn you.”

“Ah, Kassandra,” said the jailor in a friendly way, “so glad you are awake. Good news, my friend. I have a job for you.” Aspasia cleared her throat, and the jailor bobbed his head, instantly simpering for approval. “Ah, forgive me. This beautiful woman here has a job for you.”

This… “Kassandra” looked immediately more interested, though still quite wretched, by Aspasia’s opinion. 

“A beautiful woman with a job for me,” she said, then grinned crookedly and shook her head, rueful, before wincing at the motion. “Sounds too good to be true, Markos.”

Strangely, the jailor—Markos—chortled as though he and the _misthios_ were good friends. “This time, I promise you, it is true!”

The _misthios_ eyed Aspasia somewhat crudely, then grunted and yawned, unconcerned, and waved a hand as if to dismiss her. “Can’t you see I am in no mood for entertaining a woman at this time? Later, perhaps _—ah!_ ”

Though Aspasia was not particularly offended—she had heard far worse before, many politicians being known for their cutting tongues and cruelly-honed remarks—Markos cuffed the _misthios_ on the back of the head smartly.

“You watch your mouth in front of a proper lady,” he hissed, as though embarrassed by her bad manners on his own behalf.

“ _Maláka_ ,” the _misthios_ swore again, glaring up at him. “Hit me again, and I’ll—”

“Leave us,” Aspasia commanded suddenly. Both the _misthios_ and Markos went silent. When the jailor realized she was speaking to him, he goggled, aghast. 

“I-I cannot, my lady! My honor simply would not allow it! To leave such a noble woman unattended with one such as—!”

“So you would have me hire a _misthios_ I do not know on your word alone but then refuse to leave me in her company in the same breath?” Aspasia challenged.

At once, and as expected, Markos gave in. “Very well,” he said, then shook his cudgel at the _misthios_ warningly. “You lay a rough hand on this fine woman, and you shall dearly regret it, Kassandra!” he threatened, though the _misthios_ merely quirked an eyebrow at him and smirked. 

“A hand? No need. A few fingers is all I—”

Markos hit her again. It took a moment before Aspasia realized the implications of the _misthios_ ’s words, and felt herself flush with irritation. This woman truly was a complete and utter scoundrel. But she seemed confident of herself, and somewhat capable for combat, and this was the fourth prison Aspasia had been to that morning. She needed her. 

She waited until Markos finished threatening the _misthios_ and had stepped out before clearing her throat. She would have taken a step forward to further impress her command upon the other woman, still seated on the floor in the dark, but the smell kept her away. For her part, the _misthios_ spat to the side, grimaced, then deigned to peer up at Aspasia with a furrowed brow and a look of obvious disdain. 

“Well?” she said, as though Aspasia were the one wasting _her_ time, and not the other way around. 

Aspasia felt her mouth twist with distaste and decided to make this quick. “I am in need of a _misthios_ ,” she said.

“I am aware,” the _misthios_ said dryly. “If I may ask, for what means would a woman such as yourself require a _misthios_?”

Aspasia swallowed and said, “For protection.”

“Protection?” said the _misthios_ , sounding puzzled. “Of what? Your many properties? Your gold and riches? Your fleet of ships, or warehouses?”

“No,” said Aspasia. “For myself.”

The _misthios_ narrowed her eyes at her, then uttered a short, harsh laugh. “Forgive me, but who would seek to do you harm, my lady? You look as though you couldn’t threaten a goat. Besides, this is Athens. I am sure your household already employs many faithful Athenian soldiers to protect you. A _misthios_ is not what you seek. I can do nothing for you.”

Finished, she slumped, seeming to dismiss Aspasia entirely. It was a strange feeling for a woman who commanded powerful sway in nearly every political and social aspect within the mighty city of Athens, but Aspasia refused to allow her infamous temper to control her. Rather than agree waspishly and leave the _misthios_ to rot, she took a deep, even breath, and said quietly: 

“Two nights ago, I was attacked and an attempt was made on my life.”

At that, the _misthios_ stirred. She eyed Aspasia from head to toe with more care than before, then shrugged. “Your clothing may be plain, but the weave is delicate. Pure. You wear no jewelry but there are lines at your wrists and neck that the sun has not touched. Whoever you are, my lady, you are a rich woman, accustomed to a life of wealth. These attackers more likely wished only to rob you, not—”

“You are wrong. They wanted to kill me,” Aspasia insisted. When the _misthios_ stayed silent, she said, “They came in the dark, while I slept. They tried to enter my house, and killed three of my guards before a cry went up for help, and they fled. They took nothing.”

It was quiet for a moment. Then the _misthios_ asked, in a falsely indifferent tone, “How many were there?”

“The guards reported four attackers, but I am confident there are more.”

“Did you see their faces?”

“No. My assailants are unknown. They are secretive, organized, and on the night they attacked my estate, they were all masked with white faces marked with red.”

A palpable silence filled the cell. The fetid air seemed to thicken until it was nearly impossible to breathe. In the meager torchlight, a dangerous glint came to the _misthios’_ s eyes. 

“White masks with red markings, you say?” The _misthios_ gave Aspasia a third, further appraising look, eyes dragging up and down even slower than before, and then leaned back against the wall, clinking a chain by her shoulder and propping her heavy arms on her bent knees. “So, then. These people, they want you dead? And now you believe that because they have failed, they will soon return, and make another attempt on your life?”

Aspasia swallowed. The idea was terrifying, but more than possible. Expected, even. “I do.”

The _misthios_ was quiet. “How much?” she finally said.

Rather than grow annoyed, Aspasia was pleased. Naturally, a _misthios_ would prefer to speak of money before any other accommodations, which meant the woman before her had already decided to agree to her proposition.

Aspasia considered her options. By most standards, she was a rather rich woman, while clearly, this _misthios_ was not. Still, she did not want to sound foolish or unworldly if she offered _too_ much, yet neither could she offer too little. If she lost the _misthios_ now—supposedly skilled, relatively nameless, and plainly in dire need of steady employment—she would never forgive herself. 

“If you agree, and protect me to my satisfaction, I will pay you two hundred _drachmae—_ ” she decided upon, then paused for a moment, preparing to add, _a month._

Aspasia caught a split second of surprise flashing in the _misthios’_ s eyes before it was disguised beneath a dramatic sneer. “Two hundred?” interrupted the _misthios_ with a huff. “I am to risk my very life for you for a mere two hundred _drachmae_?”

So, she had offered too low. Aspasia adapted instantly. “Two hundred _drachmae_ ,” she repeated, then followed with, “a week.”

The light in the _misthios’_ s eyes returned, and with it came an intense, hungry greed. Now Aspasia truly had her. Then she looked wary. “And what must I do, to earn this _drachmae_?”

Aspasia was ready for that query, and said firmly, “You will live at my villa, watch over me every day, and accompany me during my duties about the city. You will protect me while I eat, sleep and bathe. You will never leave me vulnerable, and you will defend me from those who wish to do me harm.”

“Every day?” growled the _misthios_. “Eat, sleep and bathe? I am not Athena made flesh. You expect too much.”

Aspasia raised a haughty chin. “You are a _misthios_. A paid warrior without honor or a sense of duty. You fight wars in which you do not belong, and kill men and risk your life because you are ordered to, for money. If you cannot protect the life of a single Athenian socialite, whose most dangerous encounter is a battle of wits with fellow politicians and philosophers, what good are you for?”

The _misthios_ gave her that scouring look again—frank appraisal mixed with a defiant challenge—and then suddenly laughed and shook her head. “I suppose I have no choice. Very well. I accept your offer.”

Though she attempted to ignore it, Aspasia, at once, felt relieved.

She motioned for the _misthios_ to stay where she was, then fetched Markos the jailor from the hallway. When he heard the news, he appeared gleeful.

“Wonderful!” he cried. “ _Wonderful!_ You have found your _misthios_! Oh, my lady, you will not be disappointed, you have my word. Go, please, take her away with you now. I will complete the, er, necessary paperwork to free her from her sentence, at your convenience, of course.”

Aspasia paused. It had not occurred to her to ask why exactly the _misthios_ she had just hired had been arrested in the first place. At her query, Markos grinned wickedly.

“Oh, it was nothing too terrible. The guards who brought her in said she was intoxicated in public and caused a riot in the markets, brawling with a gang of thugs led by a man called the Cyclops. I believe she was also charged with public indecency. ...Something about a goat?”

Unsure if she wished to hear the entire story, Aspasia returned with Markos to the fetid, dank cell with the waiting _misthios_.

“Kassandra!” Markos bellowed happily. “This is a cause for celebration! You are a free woman once again!” He shook his finger at her, mock-threateningly. “Don’t let me catch you causing trouble again, eh? Next time I shall not be so gentle with you.”

The _misthios_ laughed. “Next time, Markos, I will not let you take me in so easily.” With a groan, she stood, and Aspasia had to restrain herself from taking a sudden, unconscious step back. The _misthios_ , she discovered, was almost more than a head taller than her—she stood taller than most men, in fact, and was thick-limbed and broad-shouldered besides. Aspasia immediately disliked how small it made her feel in this cramped, gloomy little cell, craning her head back to look up at the other woman, looming above. The _misthios_ , at least, was beneath her in every other way but the physical.

She perhaps would have liked to give her newly-hired _misthios_ a closer inspection just then, to assure herself of Markos’ claims of her warrior prowess, but that awful stink—

It would wait, she decided, and commanded, “Come,” to the _misthios_ , nodding stiffly at Markos, who bowed humbly, quivering at her low whisper of, “It would be wise for you to speak nothing of what you have witnessed here today,” and then left, the _misthios_ following behind like a resentful stray promised a scrap of meat so long as it behaved.

As soon as they exited the prison, Aspasia balked. Early morning had given way to busy afternoon, and the streets of Athens were thick with the milling day crowd. Laughter, raucous conversation and bustling noise streamed from nearby houses, thoroughfares and open gardens. All it would take was a single acquaintance to recognize her. What would people say, to see the wife of Perikles in such plain dress, and with a dirty, hungover _misthios_ at her heels, trailing sulkily after her through the streets of Athens?

Squinting under the sudden glare of the Athenian sun after the dark of the prison, the _misthios_ seemed to notice her hesitation. “My lady?” she said dryly, making the words seem like a mocking insult. In the light, she was far dirtier than Aspasia had realized, like she had rolled in a stye, then fought with the pigs afterwards. “Have you forgotten your way home, perhaps?”

Aspasia scowled at her. “I do not wish us to be witnessed together,” she said bluntly. Not only would it be embarrassing to be seen with such an unkempt _misthios_ , Aspasia did not want it common knowledge that she had hired one to protect her. Not yet, at least.

“A shame,” said the _misthios_. “Most women treasure my company. Seek it, even.”

“Quiet,” Aspasia snapped. Already, this _misthios_ was testing her patience with her improper remarks. After some thought, she said, “You will follow me to my villa, but you will keep yourself out of sight. Stay at least a dozen strides from me at all times. You must not be spotted with me, understand?”

“I know how to sneak after someone,” the _misthios_ said and rolled her eyes, as though she had been asked to do something a small child was capable of. 

“Good,” Aspasia hissed, annoyed, and stalked away. She glanced over her shoulder only once, a few seconds later, and was surprised to find the _misthios_ had already disappeared from the prison yard, and felt something like a thrill of fear and intrigue at how quickly and silently she had done so.

True to her word, Aspasia did not see, hear, or even smell her newly hired _misthios_ even once during her entire walk home. It was almost disconcerting, at first. Aspasia kept glancing nervously at the nearest shadows and flinching at sudden noises, her nape prickling at the idea of someone silently stalking her, nevermind that she herself had commanded it. 

Then came the thought that perhaps the _misthios_ was not following her at all, and had decided a life free on the streets of Athens would be favorable to a well-paying job with an overbearing mistress, and had mercilessly abandoned Aspasia to her fate.

Aspasia’s stomach curdled at the idea, and the rest of her journey home was quick and hurried. At the outer border to her estate, she waved the patrolling blue-clad Athenian guards away impatiently, then hesitated and looked back over her shoulder at the bustling thoroughfare, but saw no familiar figure in the streets behind her. So, it seemed she had been abandoned after all.

Heavy with dread, she turned—and then jumped with a sharp gasp when the very woman she’d believed vanished stepped out of the shadows of a small hedge beside her, not unlike a ghost. 

The _misthios_ made no sound at all, and simply unfolded herself to stand tall and placid at Aspasia’s side, her expression utterly bored and unperturbed, even when a guard across the way hued a cry of alarm at her sudden appearance. How they hadn’t spotted the _misthios_ at all before now was beyond Aspasia—if she was an assassin, Aspasia would already be dead—but she waved him away once again and schooled her shocked expression back to a hard frown, fixing the other woman with a stern glare. The terrible smell had returned, her stomach roiling at the first whiff. 

The _misthios_ merely grinned at her mischievously. “Satisfied, my lady?”

Aspasia ignored her. “Come,” she said, and—somewhat reluctantly—led the _misthios_ further onto the property and into the main house where Adani, Aspasia’s personal maid, appeared at once to meet them in the antechamber.

“Mistress,” Adani said in greeting, looking slightly concerned, as Aspasia had informed no one of her plans that morning, and had left her house without warning very early, before dawn. A bright young woman, Adani was pretty, smart and quick-witted. Aspasia considered her invaluable to her daily life.

“ _Chaire_ , Adani—”

At that moment, Adani spotted the tall, hulking _misthios_ lurking in the doorway and _eeped_. “W-who is that, mistress?”

“My newest servant,” Aspasia announced. The _misthios_ made a sound of offense at that, and Aspasia raised a stern eyebrow, pitching her voice low so Adani could not overhear. “This is Athens, _misthios_ , and sometimes, to get what we want, we need to play a role.” The _misthios_ simply glared at her sourly, so Aspasia spoke once more to Adani, searching her memory for the name Markos the jailor had given. “This is Kassandra, of…?”

“Kephallonia,” the _misthios_ provided, though Aspasia found herself doubtful of the claim, narrowing her eyes in disbelief. Kephallonia? That miserable little isle far to the west of, well, everything? Pah. Nonsense. This woman had Spartan blood in her, she was sure of it.

“Kassandra of Kephallonia,” she said to Adani. “She will be staying here from now on.”

“Oh,” said Adani. “And what… what would you like me to do with her, mistress?”

“Have her washed,” was Aspasia’s very first and most emphatic order. “Twice, if necessary. Make sure to throw away every scrap of her clothing. Burn them if you have to. I will _not_ have that stench in my house any longer than necessary.”

The _misthios_ , at least, did not appear offended to be talked about like chattel. Rather, she was eyeing Adani up and down quite intently, then smiled wolfishly at her when they looked her way.

“If you will be the one doing the washing,” she said in a playful, suggestive tone, hands on her narrow hips, “then I am yours to command.”

To Aspasia’s great annoyance, Adani turned bright red and shyly lowered her face. Aspasia reigned her temper with effort. Even covered in dirt and mud and stinking so foul, this scoundrel was already attempting to seduce her maid. Clearly, she should have expected nothing less from a greedy _misthios_ who brawled in markets and did inappropriate things to goats.

“After she has been washed,” she cut in sternly, forcing Adani’s attention back to her, “you are to clothe her in fresh garments. Make sure she is fed, and have a room prepared for her. The empty one by mine should suffice. That is all. Understand?”

Adani blushed even redder at the implication— _that is all_ —and lowered her head again. “Yes, mistress.”

“Good.” Aspasia nodded, then spoke to the _misthios_. “Do as Adani says. I have a symposium to attend shortly, but I will return later this afternoon to look upon your progress. Behave yourself.”

“Shouldn’t I stay with my lady?” the _misthios_ said in challenge when Aspasia turned away, crossing dirt-streaked arms over her chest, then eyed Adani, who was watching them curiously, seeming to only then remember the necessary secrecy of their ruse and adding in a more subdued tone, “After all, you… may find yourself in need of my services at any time.”

“Have you _smelled_ yourself?” Aspasia sneered back. She was far more worried of that stink following her about than any assassins, that was for certain. “Fear not. The symposium is downwind from my house. None will dare come within a city block now that you are here.” 

Rather than rankle her, that comment seemed to humor the _misthios_ , who grinned at her as she had grinned at Adani before—like a predator amused by the antics of its witless prey. Aspasia did not color as Adani had, but still felt herself tremble for a brief moment under the sudden intensity, as though she were being scrutinized by a hungry lion, or perhaps a wolf. Outwardly, she gave the _misthios_ a haughty glare in return, unfazed. Neither of them looked away for a long moment.

Finally, when the _misthios_ did not give sway, not even to blink, Aspasia _tsk_ ed and waved an errant hand, and Adani scurried off to her duties with the _misthios_ following lazily behind. Watching them go and wondering if she had made the correct decision in picking her new protector, Aspasia sighed, and took a moment to reflect upon her morning. Honestly, she was terribly fatigued, worried sick, and undoubtedly shaken by the attack on her person several nights ago, nearly on the verge of collapse. She wanted to see Perikles, wanted his advice on what to do next. She wanted...

But, no. There was too much to do now. Wanting would have to wait. Aspasia was a practical woman. She could not spend her time fretting what could or may or might, or hide away in her villa, quivering in fear, waiting for her attackers to return. She had a symposium to attend.

She left her house with a small detail of guards under the guise of a formal escort. At the symposium, held at the home of the sophist Protagoris, she met with various influential members of the _hetaerae_ as well as playwrights such as Euripides, Hermippos, and Aristophanes, then for a time argued philosophy and politics with Sophokles and Sokrates, a personal friend of her husband. Aspasia enjoyed his company for the most part, but found his endless rhetorical questions irritating and pointless, though he seemed to think himself very clever for them. Nonetheless, Aspasia entertained his whimsies for a time, drinking wine and playing her part of a socialite with her usual amount of skill and grace. Even Alkibiades made a short appearance to the gathering, flirted lecherously with Aspasia and then swiftly departing for parts unknown. To meet one of his many lovers, she guessed.

Aspasia's fair mood soured when Kleon, a well-renowned Athenian general and would-be politician, arrived and then attempted to speak with her, clearly wishing to curry favor. Aspasia avoided him deftly, weaving through the guests as if she had never spotted him. Kleon had long been a political rival of Perikles, and she disliked the man very much for his underhanded tactics and frequent use of rumor-mongering. Perikles was always truthful with his citizens when discussing the concerns of the city. Kleon, meanwhile, controlled those who listened to him through exaggerations and fear. Thankfully, Kleon did not stay long, announcing to any who would listen that he had many other important things to attend to before leaving the celebration with as much fanfare as when he arrived, which was to say, none. Aspasia was not sorry to see the back of him.

The sun was descending by the time the symposium had fully run its course, and Aspasia gathered her men and returned home. The Athenian sky above was clear, the clouds smeared across the far horizon gone a bright, burnished copper, casting a golden glow over her house and front walkway. Dismissing her guards to their duties, Aspasia made for her personal gardens, wanting a moment alone. Before she had gotten very far, she heard the shrill cry of a raptor overhead and glanced upwards in surprise—and then gasped as she walked straight into something utterly solid yet somehow giving and blundered back, arms wheeling. A strong hand caught her by the shoulder and steadied her instantly.

“Watch where—” she began, knocking the presumptuous hand from her shoulder, and then fell silent, momentarily speechless.

It was the _misthios_. Fresh from the baths, it was as if the dirty wretch from earlier that morning had never existed, and standing now in her place was a tall, imposing stranger that Aspasia could not help but feel entirely intimidated by. Her face, freed from its accumulated layers of filth and dirt, was smooth, brown, and surprisingly beautiful, her eyes a warm tawny-green color under strong dark brows. She smelled powerfully of musky incense and delicate flower petals, with a hint of clean flesh just beneath, her skin bronzed from the sun and limbs scattered with thick white slashes of past injuries, a distinct trio of raised, badly-healed bands of dark tissue circling her right arm, another much smaller scar flecking her upper lip. Her thick, glossy brown hair had been washed and neatly plaited with cord to hang over her left shoulder. 

As instructed, Adani had given her a fresh white _chiton_ , the material soft and diaphanous against the _misthios_ 's muscled form. Her shoulders were noticeably broad and hard, like carved wood. Her arms were practically as thick around as Aspasia’s thighs. Her legs were long and powerfully built. Even wearing a simple pair of sandals, she was so tall it made Aspasia’s knees go slightly weak, just from the idea. 

She was, physically, everything Aspasia was not—large and hard and fierce and strong. A true warrior, blazing golden under the Athenian sun like some sort of forgotten god made flesh.

The _misthios_ , it seemed, was studying Aspasia in turn, the naturally haughty smile constantly pasted on her mouth slipping from her lips as a frown creased her lovely brow. After a moment, Aspasia realized why—that morning in the prison, she had worn plain white robes and leather sandals. Now she was dressed as a true Athenian socialite, resplendent in expensively made blue and white silks, her neck and wrists heavy under the burden of finely-wrought gold and thrice-cut jewels and her black curled hair pristine and neatly arranged, priceless earrings shimmering from her lobes in the fading light.

What did she think of her, Aspasia wondered, dressed as she was in her customary riches before this _misthios_ , who had no possessions at all to her name, not even a pair of sandals, and then tried to figure out why that possibly mattered to her.

“You are Perikles’ wife,” the _misthios_ said suddenly, sounding shocked, and Aspasia knew then she had been discovered. “You are Aspasia.”

So then, even this mysterious, no-name, Kephallonia-dwelling, Spartan-blooded _misthios_ had heard about her. Aspasia refused to be flattered by her apparent lack of anonymity.

“I am,” she replied flatly.

“I saw you speak, once,” the _misthios_ went on thoughtfully. “At the Pnyx. You were very good.”

“Thank you,” Aspasia said, because she could think of no other way to reply.

Then the _misthios_ frowned again, as though something had just occurred to her. Her guarded expression took on an edge of anger. “You are Aspasia, the wife of Perikles,” she repeated. “And Perikles is dead. He was killed by assassins two months ago, at the Parthenon, was he not?”

Aspasia was quiet. She could and would not deny it. It had been common news on the streets of Athens and beyond for some time now, though Aspasia had done her best to keep it silent for as long as possible. And yet, hearing it announced aloud here and now stung faintly, like sharp nails picking at a scab, nearly healed. Her relationship with Perikles had been a complicated one, forged more out of necessity and convenience than actual love or passion, but in the end, she deeply mourned his death. Still, life had to go on. All the sorrow in the world would not bring him back. 

Now the _misthios_ ’s expression was thunderous. She took a step forward so Aspasia had to crane her head back to meet her glinting eyes. “Did you not think it important to inform me that your husband was slain by what I assume to be the same masked assassins that stalk you now?” she growled, the muscles in her forearms bulging as she clenched her fists at her sides. Aspasia refused to cower before such a brute and lifted her chin defiantly.

“I thought if I told you, you would decline,” she said, starkly honest.

“I probably would have,” the _misthios_ shot back, and gestured with one broad hand over Aspasia’s expansive property. “You command countless soldiers—armies! And yet you hire me, a lowly warrior from a _malákas_ prison, as if you seem to think a single failed _misthios_ can keep you safe where so many others cannot.”

Aspasia swallowed and picked her words with care. “The others failed because they were too obvious. It is easy for those watching me to find the moments when I am alone and unprotected. Soldiers and guards cannot follow me everywhere. You can.”

“I am still not entirely convinced these people want to kill you,” said the _misthios_ in that infuriatingly confident way of hers, as if Aspasia were _overreacting_ about a botched assassination attempt. “Perikles is dead. What matter is it to them if you are still alive?”

“Of course,” spat Aspasia. “What is a wife without the husband? As you say, I am nothing now that Perikles is gone. Certainly when I spoke so well at the Pnyx, it was only because my husband was there, not because I composed the speech personally, having worked and researched my propositions and methods for months, nor spent years educating myself in all manner of politics and governing in hopes of bettering the common Athenian people. No, how foolish of me to think such a thing.”

The _misthios_ 's jaw worked back and forth for a moment. She seemed aware she had greatly insulted Aspasia with her accusation but offered no apology, though she at least did not press the matter any further. 

“Tell me,” she said suddenly. “Why exactly did you arrive at the prison this morning in disguise, and why did you have me dressed as a servant, instead of giving me armor or proper weapons I would need to protect you?”

That, at least, was a far less sensitive question to answer than the other. “I went in disguise because I cannot afford to appear vulnerable, not now,” Aspasia said. “Not when everything Perikles and I have built over our years together threatens to fall apart in his absence. These figures in the dark, they want to silence me for trying to carry on his work—our work—but I will not let them.” Drawn off track, she went on, “If my attackers become aware I have hired a _misthios_ for protection _,_ they will know to target you first if and when they attack once again. They will overwhelm and kill you, and then do with me what they will. But if I disguise you as a new servant, and place you within my house to serve me and accompany me throughout the city, _you_ can ambush _them_.”

The _misthios_ pondered that for a moment, then snorted in flagrant disbelief. "Do I _look_ like a servant to you?"

"You will look however I tell you to look, _misthios_ ," Aspasia replied tightly.

“Is that really your best idea? Hiding me in plain sight?”

“Oh?” Aspasia sneered, drawing her head back. “Do you have a better one, great _misthios_? Please, indulge me.”

The _misthios_ shrugged flippantly. “Why not marry again?” she suggested. “Take safety under the sway of another powerful politician, if you believe this group wishes to silence your influence over the city.”

Anger flashed hot, deep in Aspasia’s chest. She had considered such a thing for only a short time after Perikles’ death before casting it underfoot and crushing it beneath her heel. “I earned my independence,” she snapped, struggling to keep her temper in check. “I crawled from the dregs of the _hetaerae_ into the upper echelons of Athens’ noble society, and I will _not_ demean myself by seeking sanctuary from any man who might use my plight as an opportunity to further himself. I would rather die.”

“Maybe you will,” the _misthios_ replied casually. Aspasia couldn’t tell if she was joking or not and took a deliberate step forward so she and the taller woman were chest to chest, narrowing her eyes into a glare so ferocious that for a moment, even the mighty _misthios_ seemed to balk, her blankly held expression quivering for a split second before schooling back to stillness. 

“If I die,” Aspasia hissed lowly, “where will you earn your _drachmae_? Fighting thugs in the market while drunk?”

The _misthios_ 's mouth tightened resentfully. Aspasia had hit a tender spot. “Those _malákes_ started it,” she muttered, crossing her scarred, bronze-sheened arms over her chest.

Aspasia scoffed. “Tell that to the goat.”

Rather than lash out or grow furious by the rude dig, the _misthios_ suddenly burst into brash, explosive laughter. She laughed so long and loudly that any malicious tension remaining between them seemed to seep away like water through a cracked bowl. Aspasia was left feeling annoyed, drained, and slightly off-balance. She quickly stepped away from the _misthios_ before any passing guards could see them so near and approach.

Stifling her irritation, she waved a hand and said, “If you no longer wish to honor our agreement, _misthios_ , then I will not force you to stay. But if you do refuse, know that you will be brought straight back to the prison where I found you, _after_ returning all the belongings of my house that have been gifted to you so far, understand?”

“And what?” the _misthios_ asked good-naturedly, behaving as though they were close friends joking about, despite their sharp arguing only moments earlier, gesturing down at her new _chiton_ and sandals. “Walk naked and barefoot through the streets of Athens? While I’m sure many women would enjoy the sight most dearly” —Aspasia rolled her eyes and raised a hand to her brow to stave off a growing headache— “I think perhaps I shall keep them.”

At that, Aspasia stiffened. Did that mean…? “So, you accept?” she asked, finding herself eager to confirm it officially.

The _misthios_ placed her right fist over her heart and lowered her head briefly before standing tall once more—it was, as Aspasia suspected, a proper Spartan salute. “I am yours to command, my lady,” she said, and grinned broadly.

For some reason that, Aspasia could not help but think, sounded like a very bad joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up to the fandom three years late* get in loser we're going yearning


	2. Proving One's Worth

It did not take long for Aspasia to realize she did not particularly like the _misthios_ she had hired for the not-inconsiderable task of protecting her from the violent machinations of shadow-dwelling masked assassins of unknown origin and intent.

In fact, as she further came to realize, only a short time later, she utterly _despised_ her.

Where to begin?

Within the first few days of hiring the woman, Aspasia noticed, first and foremost, a complete lack of anything resembling manners. When she had appointed the sullen _misthios_ to pose as her newest personal attendant and carry the ruse at all times within her villa, she had expected at least an effort in the way of basic politeness and self-dignity, but instead, it seemed as though Aspasia had found herself a coarse, slovenly laggard intent solely upon scandalizing the rest of her servants and driving her new mistress unerringly toward destitution—and quite possibly madness. 

Within a week, the gluttonous _misthios_ nearly drained the household supply of wine dry. While it was commonplace in Athens, if not all of Attika, to have _amphoras_ near-constantly at hand, the _misthios_ seemed to take that as a challenge. The more she drank, the rowdier she became, though for all her drinking, Aspasia did not witness her entirely drunk, making for an almost inhuman tolerance. To have gotten herself into as sorry a state as Aspasia had found her back in the port-side prison now seemed a monumental achievement—nevermind that she ate like a beast as well, sheer quantities that boggled Aspasia’s cook, complete with noisome belching and repugnant finger-licking afterwards.

It was, in a word, _disgusting_.

Even while sober she was loud, obnoxious, and told the rudest jokes Aspasia had ever heard in her life. Having her similarly dimwitted and brutish male stablehands, laborers and house guards chuckling over such filth was one thing—having an utterly _filthy_ joke dubiously repeated to her by her young, impressionable messenger girl Phoibe for an explanation was quite another. Immediately afterwards, Aspasia had fallen upon the _misthios_ with such wrath and fury that by the end of her tirade, the foul woman seemed appropriately cowed, albeit temporarily. As for Phoibe, Aspasia strictly forbade her from ever reciting such vileness again, at least within her earshot, as the child could not have known better.

The _misthios_ , of course, did not stop with bawdy jokes, as, unsurprisingly, she was a complete and utter _lech_. She flirted incessantly with all of Aspasia’s female servants and even with some of her visitors, no matter their social standing, age, or appearance—no woman, from the lowliest crone in the kitchen to the highest of educated financiers and linguists, escaped her lascivious advancements. Some laughed in good humor and brushed her off with ease, others curled their lips and sneered in offense, and even more, for reasons Aspasia simply could not fathom, seemed to respond _favorably_. 

Adani in particular seemed to enjoy the _misthios_ 's devoted attention, which, of course, the brute did not fail to miss. One morning, Aspasia went looking for her noticeably absent maid and came upon her flushed and tousled in a back room with the _misthios_ lingering suspiciously nearby. Aspasia was no fool—clearly, they had been passionately engaged only moments before, their attempts to hide the matter laughable at best. A strict talking-to for Adani and a nasty look directed toward the _misthios_ had kept them from another attempt so far, though Aspasia was not sure for how long. Chase a hungry wolf away, and it will always come sniffing back the second the shepherd turns their back.

Speaking of wild beasts, the _misthios_ also—quite implausibly—seemed to have a ridiculous knack for befriending animals— _animals!_ —though _that_ one came as more of a complete surprise than any of her other… quirks. At first it was merely stray cats and dogs turning up on Aspasia’s estate, easily chased away by the guards. Then, one morning, as Aspasia dealt with business, sitting under the shade of billowing silk curtains on her rooftop study with a collection of scrolls strewn in front of her, she heard a chirp and shrieked when a large brown eagle suddenly swooped from the sky and perched itself on the back of her chair with a rustle of tawny feathers. 

The eagle shrieked back at her, similarly startled, and took wing when she flailed impotently at it, flying a short distance over to the _misthios_ , who was sitting cross-legged on a cushion nearby, keeping watch over her mistress as her new duties prescribed and apparently _bored out of her_ malákas _skull_ , as the other woman called it, landing with sharp claws on her scarred, bent knee.

“Hello, Ikaros,” the _misthios_ said, unphased, and retrieved a small piece of dried meat from a pouch on her belt and threw it to the bird, who snapped it up hungrily.

“What. Is _that_ ,” Aspasia rasped, still shocked by its sudden appearance, frozen in her chair.

“This is Ikaros,” the _misthios_ answered, giving no further explanation, and the bird chirped accordingly and tilted its head up to have its chin scratched. Aspasia had literally no reply. First cats and dogs, now the _misthios_ was an eagle-bearer? What was next—a _lion?_

In addition to the ever-growing list of concerns (sleeping at all hours, climbing on literally every available building of the villa for seemingly no reason at all, starting tedious fights with the guards) and perhaps most importantly out of all of them, the _misthios_ took upon her ambitious duties of protecting Aspasia night and day with only the weakest of enthusiasm, like a weary parent entertaining the whims of a foolish, particularly annoying child—but at least she fulfilled them, Aspasia supposed, if the _misthios_ following her about the city with dragging feet and obvious resentment, glaring darkly at any nearby politicians, sophists or _hetaerae_ and generally making a fool out of herself could count as obeying orders. Aspasia had to hiss in her ear on more than one occasion to better play her part of a meek personal attendant, to which the _misthios_ would shrug and roll her eyes or give a great, heaving sigh, as if she had better things to do.

Aspasia found herself doubtful and close to despair, those first few weeks of their agreement, believing she had been duped by the jailor Markos and even the _misthios_ herself in some sort of elaborate scheme, tricked into feeding, sheltering, and providing for a woman who claimed to be a fierce warrior and really was nothing of the sort, aiming only to swindle her of as much _drachmae_ as she could before fleeing back into the relative anonymity of Athens' crowded underbelly.

Her only respite to her ceaseless doubts was when a strange object arrived to her villa one day, Phoibe running to find Aspasia attending business in her favorite secluded spot in the gardens, one of the only places in which she could find a modicum of peace in these trying times.

“Aspasia!” she called, approaching excitedly with a wrapped bundle in her thin brown arms. “A worker from the prison brought this. He said it’s from Markos, for Kassandra. Can I go give it to her?” 

Aspasia took the object from the girl with a grimace. Phoibe, unlike most of the other women on her estate, was far too young to hold any romantic inclinations for the _misthios_. Instead, the girl had adopted a sincere and concerning case of hero worship for the horrible woman, which Aspasia almost considered worse. 

“No,” she said shortly, not wanting her young messenger girl to spend any more time than necessary in the _misthios_ 's crude company. “Run along now.” Phoibe sighed dramatically—already behaving more and more like her boorish idol every day, Aspasia noted with a _tsk_ —and obediently scurried off. 

Alone, Aspasia unwrapped the object, supremely confident in her right as the _misthios_ ’s employer to determine what exactly lay within, and was shocked to unveil a rather odd-looking weapon beneath—it appeared to be an old, broken spear, the wooden shaft splintered crookedly but the blade finely honed and well-kept, without a speck of dirt or rust. When she tested the edge with a fingernail, she found it sharp as a razor. Holding it in her hand, it appeared almost like a strange, oversized dagger, the blade lightly flanged and seamed with faint golden lines.

Wrapping it up once more to conceal it from any watchful servants or nearby guards, Aspasia went searching for the _misthios_ and found her nearby, feeding that half-tame eagle of hers scraps of meat from her palm.

“This came for you,” she said bluntly, and thrust the wrapped bundle at her. 

The eagle chirped and took flight, as if to give them privacy. Puzzled, the _misthios_ took the bundle from Aspasia and removed the cloth. When she saw what lay underneath, she went stock still, seeming even to hold her breath, cupping the broken spearhead reverently in her two broad hands, then pressed it close to her chest and seemed to sag, as if in relief.

“My spear,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I thought I had lost it.” She closed her eyes for several moments, breathing deeply and slowly. When she opened them again, Aspasia was alarmed to see the glitter of unshed tears and took a small step back, at once uncomfortable with the sudden display of emotion. “Who—?”

“The jailor, Markos,” Aspasia said quickly, before the _misthios_ could turn that mortifying, misplaced gratitude upon herself. 

“Ah,” said the _misthios_ , grinning. “I had it with me, during my... disagreement, in the markets. After, I thought someone had stolen it. Markos, you brilliant bastard.” Without Aspasia having to ask, she held it aloft and said, “This was once the spear of the great Spartan Warrior, Leonidas.” At his name, she seemed to visibly swell with pride. “He was my grandfather.”

Aspasia was quiet, unsure if she believed that tale or not. It seemed a grand story, but a bit too fantastical to be true. The great Leonidas, grandfather to _this_ woman? “I see,” she said in a flat tone.

The _misthios_ clapped the fist holding the spear to her chest and gave Aspasia a strict Spartan salute. “Thank you, my lady, for ensuring this was returned to me. I am in your debt.”

Aspasia merely waved her away and returned to her seat in the gardens. She had not given the spear to the _misthios_ to curry favor or reward her for a job well done, as so far she had accomplished nothing of the sort, though it was, perhaps, the first serious interaction they had ever had since entering into their agreement, the _misthios_ displaying an uncharacteristically solemn maturity beyond her years. 

Sitting in the midst of her abundant flower garden, listening to the droning hum of sleepy bees and the high-pitched chitter of squeaking hummingbirds, Aspasia wondered if she had misjudged the _misthios_ , or formed her impression of the other woman far too quickly—it was possible that behind that crude, brazen front lay a noble warrior’s heart, hidden from prying eyes. Perhaps she should have waited longer and given the _misthios_ a proper chance before leaping to call her a layabout and a lech, among other things. After some thought, Aspasia decided to denounce her initial impression and create a new one in its place, vowing to remain open-minded in the future. 

The _misthios_ , of course, promptly demolished that burgeoning, newly-reopened opinion quite thoroughly the next day by finally getting her greedy fangs into Adani, the innocent ewe slipping into the foul wolf’s chambers late in the evening while its shepherd slept for reasons beyond—or below—Aspasia’s intellect. It was done quietly, while the majority of the estate was asleep, though waking to the muffled but undoubtedly ardent sounds on the other side of her markedly thin bedroom wall had been all Aspasia needed to confirm. 

Needless to say, she was less than pleased about the sudden awakening, though she found she could not be terribly upset with her maid. Adani did not know the _misthios_ was a _misthios_ , or that the incorrigible woman _should_ be spending her evenings invested in protecting Aspasia from harm, which also meant Aspasia could not punish Adani accordingly without revealing the entire ruse. 

Still, Aspasia somewhat understood the girl’s motives. Adani was young and frivolous, as most women her age were, not to mention the _misthios_ was… somewhat physically pleasing to the eye, what with her bronzed skin, muscle-hardened limbs, broad shoulders—

Irritated, Aspasia slept the rest of the night with a pillow folded over her ears, though it did not much help with the noise.

If it had stopped there, she might have ignored the entire situation and said nothing. But then Adani, flushed and gleeful from the experience, whispered giddily about her ‘wonderful night’ to the other female maids, some of whom then desired their own evening with the _misthios_ , who gladly bestowed her vigorous attentions to each of them in turn. 

For the next week or so, the salacious brute went about the estate with a pleased, satisfied air, like a well-fed beast who had been calmed from terrorizing a poor village by receiving plentiful sacrifices. Aspasia ground her teeth with fury, her temper fraying to threads and every night sleeping more poorly than ever, and at last cornered the _misthios_ one morning near the kitchens. 

“Tell me, _misthios_ ,” she hissed lowly, watching for any nearby guards or servants with low-lidded eyes, “how can you protect me properly when all you do is fuck women all night?”

“You doubt my abilities,” said the _misthios_ with a smirk that made Aspasia want to spit. “I am perfectly capable of handling more than a single task at once.” She spread her hands, broad and callused and strong-fingered, and Aspasia was furious to feel herself flush at the sight of them.

“If you fuck one more of my maids, I will throw you out,” she snapped abruptly, though the threat was empty, created that very moment out of spite alone.

The _misthios_ , of course, merely rolled her eyes, unmoved. She shrugged those massive shoulders of hers and said, jokingly, “Fine. I’ll fuck your cook. Happy?”

Aspasia was decidedly _not_ happy, but left the argument at that before she lost her composure and did something she might regret, spinning on her heel and striding away with fists clenched and sandals clapping hard against the marble floor. What she _should_ do was toss the lech out into the street and find herself a new _misthios_ , one who listened to her and took to their duties with alacrity—but it had already been so much trouble just to find this one, and visiting the city prisons might be more obvious now than before and… No. No—as much as Aspasia despised the other woman, her life was in the _misthios_ ’s hands now. Aspasia could not simply get rid of her. Once more, she firmed her resolve and vowed not to consider it again.

Naturally—as was seeming to be an occurring pattern when it came to the dreadful _misthios_ —it did not last long, and several nights later, Aspasia awoke blearily to the muffled sounds of unbridled passion in the next room. She lay awake for a moment, eyelids heavy with sleep, annoyed by the interruption to her much-needed rest, then recognized the barely distinct sound of the other breathless voice alongside the _misthios_ —Tadi, one of the servants from the kitchen.

By the gods, she really _was_ fucking the cook.

Filled with an umbrage like no other, Aspasia stormed from her bedroom to the _misthios_ ’s, located just beside her own, with temper fully unleashed. Unsurprisingly, the door was not barred or even propped properly closed, swinging open at the first strike of Aspasia’s small fist and hitting the wall behind it with a loud _thud!_

Within the room, faintly lit by the red glow of a single torch, two forms were busily embraced on a strew of fine cushions and soft cloth. Tadi was probably twice as old as the _misthios_ , but the supposed warrior did not seem to care—sitting upright, she had the servant straddling her lap and bared to the waist, her mouth and nose buried in between full breasts, Tadi’s head thrown back and her eyes closed in visible pleasure. The _misthios_ ’s face was hidden in the gloom, but Aspasia could see her powerful arm and wrist working rhythmically in the shadows between Tadi’s spread legs, and hear the faint _shlick_ of wetness over harsh, lusty gasps, a thrumming growl echoing from the _misthios_ ’s throat like some a wolf, feeding on a fresh kill.

At the sound of the door hitting the wall, both Tadi and the _misthios_ jumped in surprise, though upon seeing their mistress standing there in the doorway, only Tadi seemed horrified.

“ _My lady!_ ” she yelped, and slapped at the _misthios_ ’s wrist until the other woman reluctantly withdrew visibly wet fingers, hurriedly covering herself with her partially-undone robes. “F-forgive me—!”

“ _Mal_ _á_ _ka_ ,” the _misthios_ muttered, just loud enough for Aspasia to hear her.

“Tadi, return to your room,” Aspasia said in a cold voice, though she did not look away from the unruffled _misthios_ , who appeared more chagrined than regretful at being caught. “We will discuss this tomorrow.” Bowing, Tadi fled, clearly ashamed. While Aspasia had never considered herself a cruel overseer and would keep Tadi’s punishment to a strict, verbal warning, she could not allow her _misthios_ , who should be spending her night awake and alert for any danger approaching Aspasia’s chambers, to be so obviously distracted—the fault, Aspasia knew without doubt, lay not in poor Tadi, seduced by a bewitching churl, but in this lazy excuse of a _misthios_ sitting before her now.

“Well?” asked the _misthios_ , wiping her wet hand on the hem of her rumpled _chiton_ and looking as though Aspasia were the one imposing on her. “What did you want?”

“You are _insufferable_ ,” Aspasia snapped before her mind could catch up with her mouth. She had intended to bestow the _misthios_ with the most searing lecture she could muster, not insult her so basely. 

The _misthios_ stiffened and narrowed her eyes, her lackadaisical air disappearing at once. It seemed being interrupted during her seventh—or was it eighth, now?—conquest in less than two weeks had soured her good mood, and she stood slowly to loom as she always did over Aspasia’s smaller frame, crossing her thickly muscled arms over her chest, retorting with a just as callous, “And _you_ are frigid.”

That drew Aspasia up short, clearing the hazy red cloud of her temper for a brief moment before it returned, twice-fold and cloying. It was a cutting insult, one she had heard many times before from jealous _hetaerae_ or vengeful political rivals and always resented, but not one she’d ever expected from a _misthios_. “How _dare_ you?” she seethed.

“Tell me,” the _misthios_ said cruelly, not caring to spare her feelings, displaying a hotly flashing temper of her own, “did your husband fear you, or just dislike you, to leave you so bitter and opposed to such matters as women and fucking?”

A hand shot out and slapped the _misthios_ across the face, the _crack_ of flesh hitting flesh ringing out sharply in the small room. A moment later, Aspasia froze, her palm stinging fiercely. It hurt a surprising amount. She had reacted on pure instinct—never before had she resorted to hitting another person, least of all a tall, mysterious, imposing _misthios_ with no Athenian guards without shouting distance. A small worm of fear formed in her stomach at the idea.

Rather than retaliate or grow angry, however, the _misthios_ seemed to deflate, as though realizing what she had said, a dark shadow of regret passing over her dimly lit face. The arms crossed over her chest tightened, hard fists cramming themselves beneath tensed biceps. She looked away for a moment, swallowing audibly. Her cheek was bright red from Aspasia’s palm.

“I’m sorry,” she said in the thick silence that followed.

“ _Mal_ _á_ _ka_. No, you aren’t,” Aspasia said tightly, fighting back sudden tears. It had been an awful thing to say, a mean-spirited stab to a wound barely healed. It was true that she and Perikles had not taken pleasure in each other’s company other than intellectually, but she had still come to hold some fondness and affection for the man in his later years—truly, they had never wished harm or ill will towards one another, and for the _misthios_ to imply such a thing of her late husband…

The _misthios_ ’s head jerked at her curse, as though surprised a noble woman would stoop to using such language. “I am,” she said, quietly but somehow firmly, then knelt, surprising Aspasia, and placed her hands in front of Aspasia’s feet, as if in supplication. “My words were cruel and thoughtless. Please forgive me.”

For a moment, Aspasia was not sure how to react. The _misthios_ 's tone was gravely serious. Her apology was not a ruse—she truly meant it. Still, to kneel before her and beg… How little pride could the supposed warrior have to debase herself like this?

Perhaps it had not to do with pride, she realized, but honor.

“Get up,” she snapped impatiently, and the _misthios_ rose at once, standing so close Aspasia had to crane her neck back to glare up at her properly. “I should not have hit you, but if you ever say anything like that again—”

“I won’t,” the _misthios_ said quickly. “On my word. I spoke in haste and anger. I am sorry about Perikles. I understand loss.” She paused, then went on gravely, “More than you know.”

Aspasia was quiet. Here was that strange, solemn, noble-hearted warrior again, the one she did not know what to do with, so instead, she ranted, “You are a terrible _misthios_. You are disobedient, rude, and lazy. I have tried my best to keep you in line but now I fear I have not been strict enough. I am your employer, and your mistress, and you will begin to act like it, or I shall have to take measures. Do you understand me?”

At once, the serious expression on the _misthios_ ’s face dissolved into her usual half-smirk. “Yes, my lady,” she said, and this time, her tone was filled with poorly concealed mirth, as though it amused her to see Aspasia scrambling for some sort of control over her.

“You _will_ obey me,” Aspasia snarled, and when the _misthios_ predictably scoffed and looked away, instinctively reached out to grab her chin like one would a petulant child. Instantly the _misthios_ reacted, catching Aspasia’s wrist in her hand before she could touch her face. They stood like that for a long breath, utterly still and silent.

Something seemed to pass between them, then—a crackling snap of energy, like a discharge of lightning from a dark, swollen storm cloud. In that brief moment, Aspasia noticed how closely they stood to each other, the scent of sweat and womanly passion lingering in the air, and became profoundly aware of her state of undress in storming so quickly from her rooms—a single diaphanous sleeping robe was all that covered her, held up by thin straps and slit down the sides for comfort. Her feet were bare and her hair loose across her shoulders, face untouched by cosmetics and smelling only of her own warm body, without the added, cloying scent of crushed flowers or fine incense. 

The _misthios_ was watching her strangely, she noticed, nostrils flaring and eyes glinting faintly in the poor light. Suddenly she seemed somehow even taller and broader than before, and Aspasia shivered abruptly, feeling her nipples harden and prick against her robe’s soft, sheer material. The _misthios_ ’s eyes lowered, and she made a short, low sound in her chest, her throat working visibly. It sounded almost like a laugh.

With that, Aspasia broke free from the trance keeping her frozen in place until now. Realizing the _misthios_ still held her by the wrist, she tore her arm from her grasp and snarled breathlessly, “You dare raise your hand to me?” Her mind was whirling. Her body was trembling. The _misthios_ lowered her hand defensively, as if to show she was unarmed, wary of another slap.

But that was the last thing Aspasia wanted to do—touch the _misthios_ again. Feeling dizzy and unfocused, she said shakily, “Stay in your rooms until I call for you,” and hurried out.

Sleeping was difficult for the rest of the night. On the other side of the thin wall, she could hear the _misthios_ shifting about restlessly, but at least the woman did not attempt to sneak out or invite another servant inside, seeming to have taken Aspasia’s warning seriously for now. 

Laying there in her bed, her heart thumping hard in her throat, her wrist aching not in pain but in some other, foreign way, Aspasia once again found herself wondering if the _misthios_ was worth all the effort. Never had she met someone who could so easily set her temper ablaze, nor so soundly confuse her with only a few simple words or a touch. She was a true mystery, one Aspasia did not understand, a riddle from a Sphinx she had not asked to solve.

Perhaps one day, the infuriating woman would finally prove herself, and ease Aspasia’s growing doubts and frustrations, or fail at last, and be sent away and out of Aspasia’s life with all the ease with which she had entered it.

—

Before Aspasia knew it, four weeks had come and gone since the initial search and hiring of a _misthios_ , marking nearly three months since the death of her husband, Perikles, his body left to be discovered strewn on the floor of the Parthenon by the same masked assassins who hunted her now. She could remember her own terrifying assassination attempt, little more than a month ago, with distinct, chilling clarity—waking up in the dead of night to the screaming of maids and guards alike, her villa descended into a turmoil of panic and confusion, the hallways of her house splattered with blood, dark figures hidden behind ghoulish masks killing the men standing protectively between her and them. Watching them slay her guards, catching glimpses of their flashing weapons and red-streaked masks, Aspasia had felt true fear, knowing that she would die there—and then, miraculously, more of her men had arrived, driving the assassins away. The next morning, Aspasia had made her decision. She could not leave herself or her house at risk any longer.

Since then, Aspasia had buried her fears of another attempt on her life as best she could, acting in public as though nothing was amiss within her household, though always she felt as if someone were watching her, waiting for their chance to strike at her unprotected back. It was not paranoia, but a sort of calm surety or dreaded inevitability, something she knew the assassins were somehow manipulating, as if intent on driving her mad and forcing her to misstep and make herself vulnerable to their evil intentions.

Hoping to project an air of confidence and strength against such fear-mongering tactics, she decided to host a midday symposium with friends—or, the influential, scheming group of _hetaerae_ , sophists, philosophers, and politicians she so happened to call her friends. Aspasia considered herself a master at social entertaining, as it was far easier—though much less satisfying—than a good debate at the Pnyx. After eating and drinking their fill of rich food and sweet wine, she and the boisterous group planned to attend a new play at the city’s amphitheater, written by a friend of Aristophanes. 

Appropriately dressed as a hulking but demure servant, the _misthios_ stayed mostly to the outskirts of their luncheon assembly, blending in well enough with the other guests' attendants in a plain but well-made _chiton_ of white and red silk. Aspasia hated to admit that the sight of her broad, muscular back and chiseled arms was very distracting throughout the meal. It irritated her more and more as the afternoon went on, and when it was at last time to leave for the amphitheater, she felt only slightly relieved. 

On the walk there from her villa, taken through the main city thoroughfare, busy with foot traffic and clogged with dozens of citizens and servants intent upon their own tasks, the _misthios_ did as Aspasia had instructed and followed at an unobtrusive distance with the rest of the group’s far more docile servants, looking bored and not even attempting to appear attentive to her needs. Aspasia found herself glancing back over her shoulder at the other woman one too many times, and forced herself to pay attention to the story one of the _hetaerae_ was telling, laughing appropriately once they had finished.

Their journey to the amphitheater was slow, bogged by the heavy crowd, and halfway there, one of the men in the group suggested, “Come, friends, let us take another way. I know of a shortcut. It is much quicker, I promise!” 

Aspasia had planned to stay along the main course, but the day was hot and the sun, poised searingly overhead, was particularly brutal. Everyone else agreed at once with the man, who happily corralled them toward a smaller, more secluded side street with much more shade and far less foot traffic.

“There,” said the man, clearly pleased with himself. Aspasia, who was usually very good with names, was having a hard time placing his, though she thought perhaps he was a sophist. “Now we shall not have to worry about being late, nor arrive swooning from the godly heat of Apollo!”

Everyone chuckled and went willingly enough. Despite her concerns, Aspasia, not wishing to speak up or refuse the alternate route and thereby inconvenience everyone, found herself following along as well.

Her _misthios_ , of course, had no such qualms of propriety.

“You should not go that way,” she said suddenly, in a loud, warning tone.

As one, the group stopped in their tracks and turned to stare at her in shock, visibly taken aback by her insolence. For a mere ‘servant’ to question their mistress or her high-standing companions so boldly was unheard of, especially in public. 

Aspasia at once felt two dozen eyes alight upon her, heavy with expectation, waiting to witness her next move. Over the years, she had grown used to such scrutiny, but one rumor could destroy a reputation overnight, and many of the group were highly influential individuals in Athenian politics. Not wanting to lose their favor, Aspasia forced a haughty expression and scoffed at the _misthios_ , saying, “Surely it is no more dangerous than any other street in Athens. Now be silent or I shall punish you.”

In answer, the _misthios_ simply glowered, looking ready to argue again, but Aspasia shot her a sharp look of warning and she miraculously remained silent.

“How impudent,” laughed one of the _hetaerae_ , and the group chuckled and shook their heads, as if in rueful contempt of Aspasia’s modest reaction—no doubt expecting her to beat the other woman into obedience right there on the street, as they would—before heading off once more down the new route. Aspasia paused, collecting herself and reigning in her flaring temper from the embarrassing display, then spun and marched after them. The reluctant _misthios_ was forced to follow or be left behind, hard fists clenched at her sides and shoulders bristling at her swift dismissal.

Though she could feel the pointed glare from the _misthios_ burning at the nape of her neck, Aspasia ignored it. The _misthios_ had never seen fit to make such demands before when they walked throughout Athens’ many streets and side-alleys during her daily tasks and visits, so what was the difference now? This was already turning out to be the better route—it was quiet, shaded, and entirely uncrowded. As they walked, a few of the politicians began to argue lightheartedly about the intricacies of democracy. Another laughed at a joke told by a member of the _hetaerae_. A sophist began to sing a hearty tune from a recent play, slightly off-key. 

Joining into a current conversation, Aspasia was asked her opinion on the cost and effect of more protected trade routes from the marble quarry north of the city to the rest of Attika, and was opening her mouth to answer when she heard a sudden _thud_ , and then a piercing scream. 

She whirled around at once to see a white-masked man in black robes lunging for her, a gleaming silver knife in his outstretched hand. A scream rose up her throat and froze there, cold fingers of terror gripping her heart and locking her body in place— _they were here, at last, it was them, her husband’s murderers, the same ones from that horrible bloody night in her villa, finally they had returned to finish the job_ —and just before the blade might have reached her throat a great force seized her by the back of her robes in a grip like cast iron and threw her aside as though she weighed no more than a sack of grain. 

The world went upside down and sideways, and she tumbled and rolled some distance, skinning her elbows and knees on the paved stones and hitting her head on a jutting curb. She lay there, dazed, for several moments, before shakily rising to hands and knees to find the street behind her empty—upon the moment of attack, not one of her so-called ‘friends’ had remained, each intent upon saving their own lives, oblivious to the true target of the masked assassins, their frantic shouting fading already as they fled—while in front of her, a ferocious battle appeared about to take place. 

Between Aspasia and four tall masked assassins was her _misthios_ , poised to attack. In her hand was the shattered spear Markos had sent her, sharpened and honed to a keen edge. How she had hidden it until now, Aspasia did not know, though she was grateful the _misthios_ had thought to do so. The assassins, faced by a fierce-looking woman dressed as a servant holding a broken weapon, seemed unsure of what to do next.

Despite being outnumbered and at a severe disadvantage in armaments, her _misthios_ did not appear at all afraid. Rather, she grinned nastily, and said to the assassins with a dark, meaningful undertone, “Hello again. It has been so long. Tell me, do you remember my face?”

The assassins shifted and glanced at one another, visibly confused. Aspasia blinked slowly, similarly baffled.

“What are you waiting for?” barked one of the assassins to the other. “She is just a servant! Kill her, already!”

The eager expression on her _misthios_ ’s face dropped then, as if disappointed the assassins did not for some reason recognize her, and in its place came a cold, blank-eyed stare, far more chilling than before. One of the assassins, urged by the others, stepped forward. He was massive, taller even than her _misthios_ , and armed with a gigantic curved blade held in one mulish hand. 

“This is your only warning,” said the man, his voice like grating rocks. “Leave, now.”

Her _misthios_ said nothing, and simply stood there loosely, arms at her sides, sandaled feet apart, looking for all the world as if she were not faced with a deadly assassin, but a barking dog.

With a harsh roar, the assassin surged forward, bringing his sword overhead and then swinging it down with both hands. Aspasia cried out at the force of the blow, enough to cleave a man in two, aimed directly for her _misthios_ — 

—who, at that instant, moved like flowing water and shot forward, further into the weapon’s path. She raised her broken spear in a flash, the sharp clang of steel on steel ringing out like the peal of a bell, stinging Aspasia’s ears. She was stunned to see the _misthios_ had caught the man’s blade in mid-air on the edge of her spear, and was holding it in place with bulging muscles and bent knees. Even the assassin seemed startled to have been so arrested, giving a faint choking sound of surprise.

Before Aspasia could blink, her _misthios_ pivoted and knocked the mighty blade aside with a shower of sparks, then grabbed the man’s wrist and—and did _something_ to it, twisted or bent it somehow, because the next thing Aspasia knew the man was shrieking shrilly in pain, his elbow pointing in the wrong direction and his sword dropping from nerveless fingers.

Her _misthios_ kicked him brutally in the knee, breaking it with an ugly crack. The man screamed in agony and fell forward, his cry cutting off abruptly when the _misthios_ stabbed her spear upwards through the bottom of his jaw, holding him there on his knees as blood poured through the mouth-slit of his garish mask, then casually shoved him off the blade with her sandaled foot, his body hitting the street with a heavy _thud_ , dead.

“Well,” the _misthios_ said to the other three assassins, who were frozen in shock. She sounded, of all things, just as bored as before. “Who’s next?”

None of the masked figures moved, and it was then Aspasia realized her trick had worked. The assassins had not expected retaliation. Until now, they had truly believed her _misthios_ was only a bumbling servant, and were scrambling to adapt. They had two choices now: fight, or flee. 

“The two of you, deal with her,” said one of the masked figures, gesturing to the _misthios_ with his silver knife—he was the one who had attempted to cut Aspasia’s throat only moments earlier, though it felt far longer. Time did not exist in this empty street, not any longer. “This one,” he continued, and turned the dark, empty eye sockets of his mask to Aspasia, regarding her coldly, still hunched over on hands and knees on the ground, “I will manage alone.”

At once, her _misthios_ lunged for him, meaning to head off his threat, but the other two assassins quickly got between them. Aspasia could see nothing but a dazzling flurry of hard-thrown blows and flashing blades. Her _misthios_ swore loudly and was forced back, away from her.

The assassin with the silver knife stepped ominously toward Aspasia. Still shaky from her tumble, Aspasia scrambled backwards until she hit a marble column and then cowered there, frozen with terror as the man continued inexorably forward. 

“Please,” she tried to whisper, hands curled at her fear-clamped throat, clutching at her own neck in horror. Her limbs had turned to water, her guts to ice. She could not move, could not scream. Her sad fate had come at last, and soon she would join her husband in death. She should be furious. She should fight. Yet all she could do was cower and weep.

The masked assassin regarded her blankly and said, “It must be this way. You cannot change this.” As the scuffle behind him grew louder, he raised his silver knife and readied himself to strike—

Aspasia heard a sudden screech and jerked, gasping in shock as the golden eagle Ikaros suddenly descended from the sky and swooped at the man’s head, tearing at his arms and face with sharp talons and a fiercely pecking beak. The man shouted and flailed in surprise, backing away from the onslaught.

Behind him, her _misthios_ was still fighting furiously with the other two assassins, deflecting wild blows with her broken spear and spinning away from their panicked strikes with effort. Her keen eyes found an opening Aspasia had not, and she lunged low and under the taller assassin’s arm, seizing them by the neck and sliding herself around their body in a half-spin, slitting their throat with a flick of her wrist. Dark blood spouted down the front of their robes, staining the stones beneath them. She shoved the body away just as the remaining assassin bellowed in fury and came for her.

Aspasia’s assailant finally succeeded in beating Ikaros away, his forearms and hands covered in gashes from the bird’s sharp claws. He swung his knife at the eagle and caught some feathers on the keen edge. The eagle screamed and took wing. Enraged, the man turned back to Aspasia, shoulders heaving, fingers dripping with his own blood.

“You cannot escape your fate,” he snarled, voice muffled by the mask. He raised his silver knife once more. Aspasia, helpless, could only watch. Distantly, she heard a wet gurgle and a faint thud. “We are going to destroy everything you created. Athens is ours!”

“Kill me then, you bastard!” she rasped, tears in her eyes as the man came for her, taking a powerful step forward—

—and then stopped suddenly with a jerk and a soft grunt. A dent appeared beneath his robes, jutting from his chest. He swayed perilously forward and then slammed facedown on the ground, his knife skittering off and his hooded head just brushing Aspasia’s feet. A second later, a growing pool of warm blood seeped between her toes, Aspasia’s gorge rising in the back of her throat at the sensation.

Pierced neatly between the man’s shoulderblades was the broken spearhead, sunk almost to the hilt. Across the street was her _misthios_ , arm extended, still kneeling atop her own weakly thrashing, slow-dying opponent, just killed before throwing her blade and saving Aspasia’s life at the last second. By the gods, it was nothing short of a miracle.

Her _misthios_ made sure the assassin beneath her was dead, then stood and kicked the one laid before Aspasia. When he did not move, she knelt and jerked her weapon free violently. Aspasia felt a fine mist of blood hit her face and flinched back, retching miserably.

“Are you hurt?” her _misthios_ asked, _tsk_ ing over Aspasia’s skinned knees and elbows. Her own face and arms were spattered with blood, but Aspasia’s darting eyes could find no injury upon her—four skilled assassins dead, and not a single mark on her bronzed skin. It was unthinkable. Who had she hired, that day in the prison? A warrior deity made flesh? After what she had just witnessed, she nearly believed it.

“I…” she began, and then faltered. She was shaking. Her throat was dry as dust. She had never been so terrified, had never seen someone so brutally killed before, with no emotion, just stark efficiency and unerring skill.

“Stay there,” said the _misthios_ , and Aspasia sagged against the column behind her, heart only just now beginning to slow from its frantic pounding, and watched as her _misthios_ grabbed each of the bodies by an arm or leg and laid them in a row in front of her, then unmasked each one.

Three were men, and one was a woman. Aspasia was frustrated yet also faintly relieved that she did not recognize any of them. When the _misthios_ looked at her questioningly, she shook her head, mute.

“I suppose that would be too easy,” the _misthios_ muttered, sounding only slightly disappointed, then picked up each of the bodies and hid them in nearby bushes. Speaking in a tone one would normally use to discuss the weather, she said, “You will need to send your guards to collect the bodies later. I am guessing these are not all of the assassins intent on taking your life, and if the rest of their forces find these, they will know you have someoneprotecting you, yes? Better they simply go missing.”

Aspasia nodded weakly. Even as in shock as she currently was, she could see the logic in such a plan. By the time her _misthios_ was finished, she was no longer gasping for breath, though she still felt terribly weak and moments from being sick.

“Can you stand?” asked her _misthios,_ returning to her side. Aspasia tried, but her legs were still shaking. On her second attempt, her strength failed her, and she caught herself on the _misthios_ ’s hard, blood-flecked forearm, who steadied her, took her gently by the elbow and helped her upright. Her keen eyes flicked up and down the narrow street—empty, but for how much longer?—and then regarded Aspasia blankly, her roughly beautiful blood-flecked face impassive, skin sheened golden with a light film of sweat, her fine silken red and white _chiton_ stained with blood and cut in several places. Aspasia would never be able to look at her again and not see the magnificent warrior she truly was behind it all.

“Forgive me,” said the _misthios_ suddenly, sheathing her broken spear at the small of her back before picking Aspasia up as if she weighed nothing at all. Aspasia found she was too shaken to protest as strong arms threaded behind her knees and around the cage of her ribs, holding her to a broad chest seemingly without effort. Feeling that tremendous strength in the calloused hands cupping her thigh and torso, she realized it had been her _misthios_ who’d tossed her back so powerfully at the first attack of the assassins. She’d done it to remove her from harm, yes, but the ease with which she had physically picked Aspasia up and thrown her… It was—not frightening, exactly, but undoubtedly formidable. 

Her _misthios_ was warm and hard against her and smelled powerfully of blood and sweat. In her arms, Aspasia felt at once relieved, safe, and woozy. It was all too easy to rest her dizzy head on one of those great solid shoulders, close her eyes, and take some comfort in her sure, steady presence, at least for a few moments. Soon, the danger would return once more, as Aspasia knew it would until the threat was drawn out from the root. 

—

Thankfully, her _misthios_ did not take the main thoroughfare home, traveling swiftly by abandoned alleyways and quiet side-streets so as not to stir any further rumors or besmirch her lady’s good standing by having her seen in public, carried about the city of Athens in the arms of an ruffian-servant. She seemed a natural at creeping about and staying well-hidden, even with a burden in her arms, and Aspasia could see then how such a deftly-footed woman could have followed her so silently and unseen that day from the prison where she had found her. Only an Athenian spy could have been so adept, and even then, Aspasia doubted them against her _misthios_ ’s obvious skill and cunning.

Along the way, several squads of Athenian soldiers hued cries and raced off in lines toward the direction the attack had come from, no doubt answering the initial calls for help of Aspasia’s fleeing friends, though far too late to do anything now. Aspasia hoped they would not check the bushes too closely in their search for the culprits, though not much could be done if they were found. Kleon himself was leading one of the groups, his face grim and manner harried, as though anxious for some reason—Aspasia grit her teeth at the sight of him, refusing to believe such a man could be worried about her. He was a fearsome warrior, yes, but the way he had always degraded her husband in court… Pah.

Once safely back at her villa, Aspasia roused from her torpor long enough to instruct her _misthios_ to enter through the secluded garden gates and go directly to her personal chambers. Adani was then fetched and sworn to utter secrecy out of necessity alone—Aspasia was beginning to realize it would take far more than just her and her _misthios_ to fight this masked army of murderers and skulkers—before all was revealed. 

Awed by the _misthios_ ’s true identity and after hearing of the harrowing attack only just attempted on her lady, the young woman quickly obeyed Aspasia’s rapid-fire instructions, arranging hot water and cloth for both of them—the _misthios_ cleaning herself up first on Aspasia’s heated insistence—followed by fresh clothes and sandals. Their bloodstained silks were discarded to be burned and the physician Hippokrates was called under the excuse of an early dinner invitation.

A good friend of her and her husband, Hippokrates arrived swiftly and made no grand debacle of Aspasia’s modest injuries, even upon hearing what had caused them, treating her swiftly and efficiently without fuss, musing aloud that it was nothing short of a miracle she had walked away from the encounter relatively untouched—the worst of her scrapes needed no more than to be cleaned and a soothing balm applied, while the knot on her head needed only a cold compress and a light bandage.

At Aspasia’s relentless prodding, he checked the _misthios_ over as well, if only to humor her demands, and declared her fit as a horse, if not more so. Relieved, Aspasia listened patiently to his warnings of future ambush endeavors and nodded thanks at his promise to always come if she so called.

When they were alone again, Aspasia fixed her _misthios_ with a fierce frown and said coldly, “Tell me, _misthios_. The assassins, from today. Why did you greet them as you did, as if you knew them? Hear me now. If you are working with them, I will call the guards and have you slain this very moment.” 

The _misthios_ was silent. She gave Aspasia a calm, measuring look. Aspasia was very aware that if the _misthios_ wished to, she could kill Aspasia here and now quite easily, with plenty of time to escape before someone noticed. Still, despite her threat, Aspasia knew somehow that the _misthios_ was not a danger to her.

At last the _misthios_ spoke, her voice grave. “These… men. I have encountered others like them before, many years ago.”

Aspasia remembered that day in the prison, how the _misthios_ had seemed ready to deny her request until she heard the assassins wore white masks with red markings. Only after that had she accepted. This was more than just a job for the woman. This was something far deeper, something that smacked of revenge.

“Who did they take from you?” Aspasia asked, and knew at once she had pried too deep. At once the _misthios_ ’s shoulders stiffened and her face grew hard. Aspasia, worried she might storm out in offense, said quickly, “Tell me who these assassins are.”

But the _misthios_ only shook her head. “Their numbers are many, and their roots are deep. You think they are mere assassins, but they are far more than that. They are a vast, complicated web, seeking to destroy the world as we know it. They play powerful roles in governments and monarchies. Cities will crumble at their feet. They are shadows, nameless and untouchable. I do not know any of their forces or identities, but I do know what they are called. The Cult of Kosmos.”

“The Cult of Kosmos,” Aspasia repeated, and fought back a shiver of dread. To have such people after her, seeking to end her life and destroy her dear city of Athens… “How do we stop them?” she asked hopelessly. “You are only one person. They are countless.”

The _misthios_ gave a Spartan salute. “I will die before they touch a single hair on your head. This, I swear to you.”

Her mind spinning with intrigue, Aspasia bade the _misthios_ leave her room so she may have a moment of peace. She felt as lost and desolate with fear as before, but at least she was not alone—she had her _misthios_ , and now she had a name.

The Cult of Kosmos.

That night, to her surprise, she slept deeply, a bone-deep exhaustion tugging her down into a profound blackness, unplagued as she had feared by nightmares of shrieking men and warm, bloody toes. When she woke the next morning, she felt a residual shakiness in her limbs and a knot in her stomach of what was to come when next the Cult tried again—and they _would_ try, she was sure of it—but the sight of her _misthios_ , sitting in the open yard of her villa and petting her mighty eagle, perched on her fist, the both of them glowing golden in the warm morning light, eased her rampant fears, at least somewhat.

It was all they could do now but wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in its purest form this fic is hot bitch/dumb jock


	3. Feed the Wolf

Over the next few days, the villa was relatively peaceful, though a nervous energy ran through the halls and grounds. Aspasia waited on tenterhooks for news of the assassins' bodies discovered by the city guards, and was gratified and relieved when none came. It seemed their secret was still safe—her _misthios_ had not been identified by their enemies. The ruse could continue.

Several of Aspasia’s associates from the botched symposium made necessary appearances. Only a few seemed ashamed of having run so quickly from the attack, though none seemed to suspect she had been the target of outright assassination, merely a petty robbery. Aspasia quickly spun a lie of tossing _drachmae_ upon the ground and then making a quick escape, which her so-called friends easily believed, their consciences at once allayed. Even Kleon himself paid a visit, though Aspasia stomached his presence only for a short while. His dogged, demanding queries about the attack seemed more like an interrogation, and he did not seem to believe her story of how she had escaped. When he grew visibly frustrated, she panicked and requested he leave at once, drawing up an excuse of an important meeting she needed to attend. Knowing better than to protest, Kleon saluted her and obeyed, and once he was gone, Aspasia found herself sighing in relief. She had much more important things to worry about than being rude to a man she despised.

As for her _misthios_ , the bloody fight in the back street seemed to have satisfied something within her, and for a time, her usual flagrantly disobedient, obnoxious behavior was somewhat curbed, though she still lazed about, drank wine like a fish, and caused general mischief with, of all people, Phoibe, staging a burglary of newly delivered sweets from Aspasia's kitchens, the two culprits swiping and eating the whole lot. Afterwards, the young girl practically refused to leave the _misthios_ ’s side, regaled by the other woman entirely. Aspasia feared her _misthios_ might grow tired of Phoibe's constant chattering, and was surprised to note her treating the child with obvious patience, care, and even respect.

After the failed attack on her person, the second such attempt for her life, and growing anxious of a third, Aspasia similarly lay low, remaining at the villa and spending her time reading various military reports of Spartan troop movements in Megaris and democratic missives from fellow politicians, as well as a number of messages from spies scattered throughout Attika, ordered to keep ears to the ground for any suspicious rumors and watch for signs of strange happenings within the city's dark underbelly. She wanted to know every possible fact she could about this so-called Cult of Kosmos. While the murderous group may have far-reaching hands, so did she.

On the fourth day after the incident, Aspasia decided that was enough—she refused to allow these assassins to rule her life through threats and fear and unseen violence. She had stayed hidden within her estate long enough, refusing invitations of symposiums and debates from friends and compatriots alike.

“We are going to the markets,” Aspasia announced the next morning, and her _misthios_ , looking only mildly grumpy from being woken from a nap in the sun, shrugged and fetched her broken spear, though Aspasia did not believe she would need it; the Athenian markets, teeming at all hours with customers and hawkers and citizens browsing wares, was probably the last place they would ever be attacked. An empty side street was one thing—a market filled with bustling crowds was another. Still, she did appreciate the effort, at least.

Arriving at the busy central thoroughfare crammed to bursting with colorful stalls and loudly shouting sellers and buyers alike, Aspasia felt more sure of herself, more normal. The anticipatory cringe she’d found herself walking in the past few days faded until she stood as proud and stately as ever before, her fine silks and glinting jewelry bringing the eyes of dozens of Athenian citizens appreciatively upon her. Some recognized her and hued greetings and good will. Others begged her to bestow their stall her renowned attention. Another even shouted, “Honor to Perikles!” and pumped a fist in support. Aspasia nodded at them all graciously and moved on, internally stoked by their enthusiasm.

Paying the crowd little mind and dressed once more as a docile personal attendant, her _misthios_ looked disinterestedly through several stalls as well, pausing only at one selling weapons and a second selling armor, before following boorishly a few steps behind her mistress. When she thought Aspasia was not looking, she grinned leeringly at a group of female _pornai_ and even tossed one a coin with a coyly spoken, "For looking so beautiful today." The _pornai_ , of course, grinned back and winked suggestively.

Naturally, Aspasia ‘lost track’ of her _misthios_ for several minutes afterward, and was not surprised in the least when the woman returned only a short while later, tousled and smelling of cheap wine, strong perfume, and a hungry woman.

By the time they’d reached the stables on the far end of the markets, Aspasia’s mood had soured considerably. It seemed her _misthios_ ’s latest spate of good behavior was already coming to an end. She considered leaving the markets in a huff and returning home to her villa, as she did not have much need of horses, but ultimately decided to stay, as sometimes she simply liked to look upon the majestic beasts in their paddocks and admire the newly acquired stock.

“My lady!” cried a large, jolly man Aspasia recognized as one of the local horse traders. He hurried over, bowing almost double in his efforts to appease her. “You grace my stables with your very presence. You are here just in time.” The man gestured behind him at a group of horses milling within a fenced area, and a gathering crowd of potential buyers just beyond, eyeing the selection with critical airs. “The selling of these fine mounts you see here will begin shortly. Please, pick yourself a place if you wish to bring one back with you. I assure you, I have only the best!”

Aspasia nodded and waved him away, stepping closer to the fence to begin her own assessment of his selection. She had no plans of buying a horse today, but judging the fares was a pastime of hers.

Within the paddock, she noted in turn a large white stallion, frisky and energetic, a brown mare, calm and placid but strong, and—

Behind her, her _misthios_ made a sudden sound, almost of pain.

Aspasia turned and regarded her over her shoulder. “Is something the matter?” she asked testily, still annoyed by the return of the woman’s blatantly lecherous ways.

Her _misthios_ was silent, but the look on her face was one of pure despair. "It's nothing," she said gruffly.

“Tell me,” Aspasia demanded.

Looking as though she would rather do anything but, her _misthios_ sighed and jerked her chin at one of the horses—a tall, mighty looking gelding the color of ashes. Of all the horses within the paddock, he was perhaps the most impressive, his neck finely arched and haunches superbly muscled. Even as she watched, the gelding gave a spirited whinny and rose on his back legs, churning his sharp front hooves in the air.

“What of him?” Aspasia asked, confused.

The _misthios_ was silent for another moment, and then said quietly, “His name is Phobos.” Confused, Aspasia raised one eyebrow expectantly. The _misthios_ lowered her head, as if in shame. “He is my horse.”

For a moment, Aspasia was stunned. “ _You_. Had a horse?” she said slowly, not bothering to hide the incredulity from her tone. A nameless woman from the city prison with no clean clothes, no shoes, no manners, and not a single _drachmae_ to her name had once owned so fine a creature? Impossible.

“He was stolen,” her _misthios_ mumbled, "before I was thrown into prison.”

Aspasia was silent. She nearly did not believe the other woman, but just before she might’ve declared her a liar, the _misthios_ lifted her head, and her expression was so miserable and dejected Aspasia felt her own throat clench in sympathy.

 _Pah_ , she thought, cursing herself, and turned away from the sorry sight. If the _misthios_ had lost her horse, it was her own fault, and not Aspasia’s. She would not empathize with her, not over so silly a thing.

With much shouting and fanfare, the selling of the horses within the paddock commenced. Aspasia remained on the outskirts of the squabbling crowd, watching with disinterest as buyers fought one another with higher and higher offers of _drachmae_ , the horse trader fanning the flames of rivalry by drawing up ludicrous claims for his peerless horses. _This one can run to Korinth and back, swift as a bird! This one fought in a battle against an army of Spartans, and trampled a dozen soldiers under its hooves!_

Unimpressed, Aspasia spared her _misthios_ a look, and found her grave-faced and solemn as a statue, watching her horse canter within the paddock like one would regard a loved one about to face execution.

Suddenly, the next horse for sale was Phobos, though the horse trader deigned instead to call him _Hades’ Own Mount, the Beast of the Underworld!_ Aspasia rolled her eyes at that, but could see the way her _misthios_ ’s fists clenched as the trader began to call for opening bids. The initial offer was high, higher than most others, and as it began to grow, her _misthios_ ’s shoulders seemed to tighten more and more, until her face was pale and her body was trembling with the effort of staying silent and composed.

As the amount increased further, Aspasia began to grow uncomfortable, becoming ever more aware of the woman suffering at her side. _I understand loss_ , she had said before, when apologizing for using cruel words against Aspasia that night they had argued so fiercely. _More than you know._ Aspasia remembered the pain in her eyes when the broken spear had been returned to her, the relief as it was held once more in her hands, where it belonged.

It would be a stupid, frivolous thing, she told herself, to indulge in the whims of her _misthios_. She was crude. Uncultured. Disobedient. And yet—

And yet sometimes she looked at her as if she understood something Aspasia could not even begin to fathom, and she had saved her life once already, slaying four blood-thirsty assassins in order to protect her. She was kind and patient with Phoibe, and she made Aspasia’s servants laugh and smile with her jokes and friendly nature—among other things. Before she had come, Aspasia’s villa had been a quiet, somber place, still trapped in mourning the death of her late husband. Now it was brighter, and at times, almost felt safe again—

The words spilled from her mouth before she could stop them. “One thousand _drachmae_ ,” she said, and felt herself react a split second later to the shock of the crowd and also to her _misthios_ ’s staggered face. With skill earned from dozens of debates conducted within the Pnyx, she schooled her composure to a calm mask, though inside she was aghast with herself but unable to take the words back. _Mal_ _á_ _ka_.

“Sold!” cried the horse trader triumphantly. “To our city’s own lovely Aspasia! Well done, my lady! A fine choice indeed!” Turning away, he began the bidding on the next horse to the disappointed crowd.

“I…” the _misthios_ began, stunned.

“Well?” Aspasia interrupted sharply, covering her rising embarrassment with her temper, as she usually did. One thousand _drachmae_ , gone in the blink of an eye, and for what? Pah! “What are you waiting for?”

The _misthios_ did not move.

Aspasia motioned impatiently to the paddock. “Fetch my new horse for me. I do not wish to dawdle here forever.”

Slowly, her _misthios_ blinked and then approached the paddock almost in a trance. A nearby stablehand helpfully gave her a lead and harness before leaving her to catch the spirited beast on her own.

The moment she entered the gate, the gray horse seemed to calm from his angry kicking and head-tossing. His ears flicked toward the _misthios_ , as though unsure. Suddenly the beast appeared to recognize her, and trotted immediately over, lowering his head obligingly to be stroked. 

In turn, the _misthios_ reached out and lay a reverent palm on the horse’s muzzle. Her eyes were wet with tears. Aspasia nearly had to look away. Giving a great, shuddering breath, the _misthios_ pulled the horse’s forehead to her own and held him there for a long moment.

“I’m so sorry,” Aspasia heard her whisper roughly. “I lost everyone, Phobos. But now I have you back, and I will not lose you again.” She sniffed, hard, and now Aspasia did avert her eyes, because the _misthios_ was crying—crying!—over a horse, and though she did not understand it, the sight still made her throat clench and her fingers grasp at her robes with sudden emotion.

The thud of approaching hooves brought her head back around, the _misthios_ leading the fierce horse, gone meek as a kitten, from the paddock to stand before her. Aspasia gulped at his sheer size—she came to his shoulder and no further, dwarfed by the mighty steed entirely.

“Thank you,” said the _misthios_ , with all the sincerity Aspasia had ever heard in a voice.

Aspasia scoffed at once, deflecting. “Do not thank me. I am not doing this simply out of the goodness of my heart, _misthios_.”

“Oh?” the _misthios_ replied expectantly.

Aspasia raised her eyebrows, struck by a flash of inspiration. “The horse is mine, but if you follow my rules, you may spend time with him as you see fit.”

The _misthios_ did not appear at all surprised by the sudden blackmail. She merely nodded and said resignedly, “And what are your rules, my lady?”

In an instant Aspasia was ready, and quickly fired off, “You will stop fucking my maids and my servants. You will act as your station demands. You will complete your duties with efficiency and dedication. You will listen when I give you orders, and follow them without complaint. Do you understand me?” She thought perhaps the _misthios_ might put up a fight against the sudden deluge of restrictions and demands, but instead, the other woman made a brief, discouraged expression before nodding, clearly far too taken with the return of her horse to argue.

“Very well,” she said, and stroked the horse’s muzzle distractedly. 

A bit off-put by her easy agreement, Aspasia was silent. Now that she had gone ahead and bought the creature, she was not quite sure what she might do with a horse on her villa—the mostly unused stables near the western side would need to be cleaned out and feed and supplies brought in—but hopefully a newly obedient _misthios_ would make up for the trouble.

The _misthios_ patted the horse on his muscular neck and asked unexpectedly, “Would you like to ride him?” 

“No, I would not,” Aspasia said at once, taken aback by the request.

“Ah,” said the _misthios_ regretfully. “You do not know how?”

Aspasia’s temper flared. “I do,” she snapped, though that was only partially the truth. While she very well knew how to ride a horse, it was considered unseemly for a noble woman such as herself to jump upon their back. Better to ride a chariot, or be carried in a palanquin than sit astride a dirty beast meant for work or battle. “Women like me do not ride horses.”

“Forgive me,” said the _misthios_ in a mincing tone. “I did not think you were like those other women. Apparently, I was mistaken.”

That was a challenge if Aspasia had ever heard one. Filled with a sudden flare of indignation, she stalked over to the _misthios_ and seized the reins from her. The horse—Phobos, was his name?—gave her a dubious look, snorted explosively, and flicked his tail. Aspasia balked and had a fearful moment to wonder if he might buck and throw her off the second she climbed on, and then the _misthios_ was beside her, alarmingly close.

“Do you need help, my lady?” she asked, and before Aspasia could protest, took her by the sides and lifted her effortlessly atop the horse’s back. Aspasia buried a shriek at the sudden change in height, clinging to the horse’s mane for balance. Her robes did not make it easy to straddle the beast’s wide back, but she managed with only some difficulty before sitting carefully upright, terribly aware of a sudden surge in attention from the watching crowd of buyers gathered at the paddock.

The _misthios_ chuckled and swung herself up behind Aspasia, handing her the reins. The sudden press of her warm, hard body against Aspasia’s back made her stiffen and suck in a sharp breath. Thankfully, the _misthios_ kept her hands balanced on the horse’s haunches, and not on Aspasia’s hips.

“I thought you said you could ride a horse,” said the _misthios_ teasingly. “This is just sitting on one. Not very impressive, I have to say.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Aspasia growled, and gave the reins a halfhearted flick. Phobos whickered and took a few steps forward. Initially wary of the rocking motion, Aspasia gradually relaxed as she grew used to the horse’s movements, doing her best to ignore their growing audience, citizens murmuring over the sight of the affluent Aspasia riding a horse with her uncouth servant tucked closely behind her. Using her knees, she carefully nudged the horse away from the stables and back toward the market mainway, where the road would return them to her villa.

“Phobos was bred for war,” the _misthios_ said after a few minutes of placid walking. “He wants to run. Here.” Before Aspasia could react, she took the reins and snapped them, hard. At once, Phobos snorted and surged forward—straight into the crowded thoroughfare. People shouted and ducked out of the way as the horse charged down the street, leaping over obstacles and skidding his hooves over the paved stones in his wild flight, the _misthios_ laughing and digging her heels into his sides to goad him even faster.

“Are you _crazy?_ ” Aspasia cried, holding on for dear life. The _misthios_ simply laughed in her ear and spurred her horse on. Aspasia swallowed a shriek at the breakneck speed, the streets whizzing by on either side. Phobos had no fear at all, skirting around corners, leaping up stairs, and vaulting bushes at the touch of the _misthios_ ’s sure hands on the reins. It was madness. It was lunacy. It was—

It was _fun_ , Aspasia realized, and was shocked to the core by the revelation.

When they neared the villa, the _misthios_ pulled her horse up and settled him into a slow trot. Aspasia’s heart was still galloping in her chest, her body tingling with adrenaline and blood rushing in her ears. She could not remember the last time she’d felt so alive. A short laugh of her own bubbled out of her throat at the very idea of how she might have looked, speeding wildly through the streets of Athens on horseback.

“You are mad, _misthios_ ,” Aspasia said breathlessly, attempting to sound stern as she glanced over her shoulder. 

“Am I?” her _misthios_ replied, grinning back, then added lightly, “I do have a name, you know.”

“I am aware,” Aspasia retorted, annoyed by the reminder, sitting upright after noticing she had slumped slightly against the other woman’s solid body.

“And yet you never use it,” the _misthios_ mused.

“What of it?” Aspasia challenged. The _misthios_ said nothing at first. When Aspasia glanced over her shoulder again, her face was somber.

“There are not many who speak my name anymore,” the _misthios_ said quietly. “I suppose I miss hearing the sound of it.”

Now Aspasia was the one at a loss for words. Suddenly it was not a rude, deadly _misthios_ on the horse with her, but a sad, thoughtful woman named Kassandra.

They rode together through the villa’s front gates, Aspasia’s guards looking stunned and amused in turn to see their mistress perched atop a ferocious steed. Aspasia took back the reins and directed the horse to a stop in the main yard.

“Here,” said the _misthios_ —no, Kassandra. She slid from the horse’s back and then, with incredible ease, reached up and plucked Aspasia by the waist, lifting her down and setting her on her own two feet. Aspasia swayed momentarily, still dizzy from all the excitement, and nearly jumped when Kassandra put a steadying hand on her shoulder. When she tried to step away, the other woman did not release her immediately.

“Thank you,” Kassandra said again, her tone warm with gratitude and her eyes filled with a gentle light.

Aspasia pushed her hand away brusquely. “I said, do not thank me.”

Rather than grow offended, Kassandra’s smile widened. “How else shall I show you my gratitude, my lady?” she said with a hint of suggestion, and then led Phobos off toward the stables, leaving Aspasia alone in the yard, glaring at that lovely back of hers with a sour taste in her mouth and turbulent thoughts in her mind. 

—

For a time, there was relative silence from the mysterious masked assassins of the Cult of Kosmos. No symbolic or written threats arrived at Aspasia’s doorstep. No black shadows were seen skulking the outskirts of her villa at night. However, Aspasia, when she did go out and about in the city, attending symposiums or debates at the Pnyx or even just touring the many sights or greeting Athenian citizens, still felt the lingering heat of menacing eyes upon her back, and knew it would simply be a matter of time before the wicked Cult tried again—in response to the lurking threat, she and Kassandra had to remain vigilant.

Her _misthios_ , however, did not appear to know the meaning of the word. While the return of her horse, Phobos, had pleased her greatly, Aspasia’s enforced restrictions had deftly put her in a near-constant mood of sullen temperance. Aspasia had merely to look in her _misthios_ ’s eyes to know the wolf was already worrying its leash with sharp fangs, yearning to be set free.

One morning, bored with inaction of the Cult and the drudgery of her daily tasks, required to keep up appearances with the other maids and servants, Kassandra took it upon herself to gather up all of Aspasia’s villa guards and give them what she called a “round of proper Spartan training,” though surely the _misthios_ wanted only a good excuse to give some men a good thrashing to try and better her foul mood.

Alarmed by the breach in protocol—a real attendant would never offer to spar with trained soldiers—Aspasia was ready to put a stop to it when one of the men loudly questioned the _misthios_ with that exact concern. 

“What does a servant know about fighting?” he sneered at Kassandra, who grinned coldly back at him, hands on her hips and braid slung neatly over her left shoulder. She had changed her clothing from that of a dignified attendant to a common laborer, the _chiton_ shorter and looser than the restrictive fine silks Aspasia usually commanded her to wear.

“Would you believe I once lived, worked, and trained at a Spartan barracks throughout my youth?” she announced with a tight laugh. “The soldiers there would grow so bored without a challenge, stuck fighting you cowardly Athenians all day and night.” 

To Aspasia, it was an obvious lie, or at least a half-truth, but for the men, it seemed a believable enough scenario. Upon having their warrior prestige called into question, most seemed agreeable to the training, if only to make the haughty woman eat her words, though others continued to hold back.

“Are you frightened of a servant beating you?” Kassandra jeered at the milling group she’d assembled in the center of the villa’s open training yard, where the guards ran their drills every morning. “Bah. Athenians. _Mal_ _á_ _kes_ , the lot of you!”

Her insult worked, and those still reluctant to take part in the impromptu training session quickly changed their minds. Aspasia, watching indifferently from her shaded rooftop study while pretending to focus on the pile of scrolls scattered on the table before her, instructed a distracted Adani to pour her a drink from a cool _amphora_ of wine as Phoibe, elbows propped on the railing beside her, watched the gathering with rapt concentration.

“Is Kassandra going to fight?” she asked curiously, sounding excited at the prospect.

Aspasia merely shrugged. While even she could not deny a faint eagerness to see the superbly skilled _misthios_ in action once more, this time without the threat of death, a small part of her was faintly concerned, as the men now seemed entirely intent on causing real harm to the cocky woman. 

The training session commenced after a brisk jog around the villa to warm up, followed by rounds of one-on-one sparring. At first, the fighting was restricted to bare hands, each man facing the _misthios_ in turn and trying to wrestle her into a twisting lock or hold until a tap or cry of surrender. Kassandra, however, was slipperier than grease, not allowing a single one of them the upper hand, knocking away her attackers as though they were mere pests. From her seat, Aspasia, intent on watching now, turned with Phoibe and Adani toward the railing. Eventually, Kassandra allowed two men to face her at once, to give them more of a chance, and herself more of a challenge. Even then, none succeeded.

Next, the _misthios_ allowed each man a single weapon of their choosing—spear, sword, shield, bow—while Kassandra fought only with her broken spearhead in hand. Aspasia was sure then that the other woman would be at a disadvantage. Her guards were superbly trained, strong, brave, and determined, not to mention growing increasingly frustrated with their inability to defeat a supposed servant. There was no way she could best them all. 

And yet, somehow, one by one, the _misthios_ , her face growing harder and darker and more intense the longer she fought, tawny eyes going cold as steel and devoid of emotion, trounced every single man in Aspasia’s villa, turning their weapons aside with precise blows and kicks and laying blade to unprotected throat or side before declaring her next opponent come forward. 

Throughout it all, not one guard laid a blow on the Spartan, who batted the flailing men almost methodically about, as if they were children attending their first lesson against a seasoned master. It was quite possibly the most spectacular display of skill Aspasia had ever seen, and by the end of it, she had almost forgotten to be furious with Kassandra for essentially breaking her own cover—no servant, no matter how well-trained, could ever fight like _that;_ a god among puny mortals.

Then, to her surprise, the guards, nursing their battered bodies and bruised egos, swallowed their bitterness and anger over being beaten by a Spartan, and began to tentatively ask Kassandra to show them certain moves. Exhilarated from the exertion, Kassandra seemed to forget her dark mood—momentarily, at least—and agreed at once, and the men fell obediently into strict formation. In a loud, commanding tone, she began to instruct the group in the basics of Spartan warfare.

Watching the big woman’s thin, short _chiton_ darken with sweat, her muscles gleaming bronze in the sun against the stripes of her tiger-like scars as she led the men through various drills and exercises, Aspasia found she was holding her breath, a strange sort of buzzing tension coiling itself within her body. She had already drained her wine but her throat was terribly dry. Also, her legs were very tightly crossed, and she was sweating even though she was not in the sun. Low in her belly was a fierce, pulsing urge, and—

Hearing a light tittering, Aspasia noticed a crowd of her female servants had gathered nearby to watch. Practically all of them were looking not at the sweating, shirtless male guards, but at Kassandra, who noticed her audience immediately and seemed to begin to show off a bit more than before, exerting herself with renewed vigor. The servants giggled harder.

Aspasia scowled and turned away. Had they no shame, eyeing her _misthios_ so openly? Did they not have tasks they should be completing, she wondered, and then noticed her own untouched scrolls and scowled again. She would have to avoid the yard in the future if Kassandra trained there again—all the shouting, wrestling and clashing was terribly distracting to her work, which needed all of her attention to be done properly. Irritated with herself, she gathered her things and stormed inside.

Unlike the rest of the women in the villa, Phoibe, at least, continued to be obsessed with Kassandra in a completely different respect—now she wanted to _be_ the _misthios_. After the morning’s spectacle in the training yard, Aspasia caught her several times pestering the _misthios_ , begging to learn how to fight. Aspasia supposed it was only a matter of time before the cranky leashed wolf snapped at the pup nipping at its heels, and hoped the _misthios_ would at least try to be kind about it.

Later that same afternoon, needing a letter run to Sokrates, Aspasia went to find her messenger girl. Not surprisingly, she discovered the girl once again in the presence of that awful _misthios_ , only this time, she was holding a small bow in her hands. Aspasia realized with a start that Kassandra was actually humoring the girl’s request.

“Phoibe,” Aspasia called to her, trying not to sound too annoyed or alarmed by the sight of the weapon in Phoibe’s hand. “Come here.”

“Aspasia!” Phoibe chattered excitedly as she ran over, grinning ear to ear. “Kassandra was teaching me how to shoot a bow!” 

“Oh?” said Aspasia, feigning interest.

“She said I had a good eye for my age,” Phoibe gushed. “I hit the target after only two tries! Two!” 

Aspasia made an agreeable sound, trying to appear impressed when really she found herself growing concerned. Phoibe was only a child. Learning how to shoot a bow was dangerous. Perhaps the _misthios_ knew what she was doing, but Phoibe was far too young to be allowed near actual weapons. Still, to see that bright, excited look on Phoibe’s face, the pride in her voice at her first victory… Aspasia could not break her spirit.

“ _Chaire,_ ” Kassandra muttered in stilted greeting when Aspasia walked over with her hand on Phoibe’s shoulder. Her face took on a guilty, sheepish edge, as if knowing she had been caught doing something her mistress would not entirely approve of, and seemed resigned for the inevitable hiding it would bring her.

“I am sure I don’t need to impress upon you the care you must take with my messenger girl,” Aspasia warned lowly, weighing her options for a long moment. At last, she made a decision and sighed. “You may continue to teach Phoibe the bow, but you will inform me before you attempt to move on to other weapons, yes?” Beside her, Phoibe beamed, thrilled to have her mistress’s permission.

“On my life,” Kassandra said, looking slightly relieved.

“Oh, thank you, Aspasia, thank you!” Phoibe cried, practically bouncing up and down, and attached herself back to the _misthios_ ’s side, who, to Aspasia’s surprise, put a large hand on Phoibe’s head to ruffle her hair fondly. It was almost a little… sweet, to see them together like that, Aspasia noted. Like a doting big sister showing their younger sibling how to do something. 

Feeling as though she was intruding somehow, she decided to send someone else to bring the letter to Sokrates, retreating across the yard to observe from a distance as Phoibe took careful aim at a hastily constructed target in the grass, the young girl listening intently as the _misthios_ gave her quiet instructions. 

There was a long, drawn-out pause. Then, the string snapped, the shaft loosed, and Aspasia couldn’t help but gasp at the solid thunk as the arrow hit the mark, off-center but well enough not to fall out. Phoibe cried out in triumph and Kassandra congratulated her proudly.

Watching them, her lower lip caught between her teeth and arms crossed tightly beneath her breasts, Aspasia felt another stirring deep within her, different from before. Where earlier it had been a hot, insistent sort of need, this was soft and thoughtful, seeming almost delicate in nature. A question, more than a demand. Kassandra turned with a smile still on her face and noticed Aspasia watching them. At once, her smile dropped and her expression turned stiff, the ill-tempered look in her eyes returning, the wolf’s hackles raising at the sight of its master.

Aspasia looked away, then quickly turned and left the yard, feeling strangely conflicted. It always upset her when Kassandra cavorted like a fool or deliberately disobeyed her, and yet, seeing her now, her usual joviality suffocated beneath the weight of her new restrictions, made Aspasia feel somehow worse, and that confused her greatly—how was it possible that a single person could make her feel so many different things at once?

A hungry wolf would not obey its master for long, she knew. How, then, could she tame it?

That night, as she lay in bed, Aspasia’s mind would not fall quiet. Her wheeling thoughts returned again and again to her resentful _misthios_ , who she could hear shifting about in the other room, her movements agitated and unsettled. Aspasia was quite sure she was alone in there, though she would not put Kassandra above sneaking a maid in to sate her voracious appetite, despite Aspasia’s forbidding her otherwise. 

How long would the wolf obey its master before finding another lone sheep, wandered from the flock, to feast upon, she wondered, and did not like the way that thought made her feel—anxious and overheated, her body going warm and clammy against the silk of her bed. Her skin felt tight and far too sensitive, her sheets as abrasive as rough wool. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest, and her hips ached as though longing for a heavy weight to hold them in place.

When she could not stand it any longer, she drew up the hem of her sleeping robe and touched herself slowly in an attempt to find some modicum of relief. At first, she tried to think of her husband, as a wife should do, though they had not married for love, but convenience and power. Perikles had been twice her age as well, and thankfully, like her, not interested in having children. When, then, was the last time someone had touched her because she wanted them to? Aspasia honestly could not remember.

Her mind wandered, and she thought instead of the way Kassandra had looked at her with such profound gratitude that day she saved Phobos at the paddock. The strength of her hands as she effortlessly lifted Aspasia on and then off the mighty horse. The solid feel of her body behind her, like warm, living marble, as they raced together through the markets.

She thought of all the servant women in the villa, disappointed to have their precious nights with the _misthios_ taken away, and Kassandra’s own mounting frustration, her desire unwhetted, appetite unappeased, and was struck by the absurd, illicit idea of offering herself to the starving wolf in their place, a sacrifice to its great hunger.

A desperate little moan worked its way free from Aspasia’s throat at the very idea. Quickly, she turned her head to the side to muffle the sound, suddenly worried of the _misthios_ hearing her. What would Kassandra do, if she thought Aspasia was in danger and walked in this instant? Would she stop and whirl around and leave in disgust, or kneel on the bed and touch her like Aspasia had seen her touch Tadi, the cook, weeks ago, holding her with those great big scarred hands of hers, her grasping mouth working its way down from her bare neck to her aching breasts—

Forcing herself to stop, Aspasia rolled onto her stomach and gasped into her pillows until she was calm. She was mortified with herself and felt more despicable than ever, imagining such nonsense and taking no small excitement from it. The _misthios_ was a scoundrel. Aspasia could barely stand the sight of her. She should not be imagining this. Not now, not ever.

But the idea had already been planted. Now she could think of nothing else.

By morning, she had barely slept, and was at a loss of what to do. A mountain of complications stood between her and her ultimate goal of a strong, peaceful Athens. Her husband was dead. Masked assassins sought to end her life. She could depend on none of her supposed friends. Soon her household would begin to suffer from her lack of concentration, nevermind her entire career. The vision of Athens and its unfailing democracy she and Perikles had taken so many years to properly build was crumbling before her very eyes. Not to mention a disruptive, insubordinate _misthios_ was driving her utterly mad. How could Aspasia possibly tend to the true dangers in her life when so many smaller annoyances threatened her attention?

Something would have to be done, she decided. Aspasia, ever the pragmatist, deduced her most easily remedied—if not daunting—problem; that of a repressed _misthios_ and her own inability to focus on tasks at hand, and found herself the most basic of solutions, of which there was only one: 

Feed the wolf.

—

Wishing to gain perspective on her latest decision, Aspasia did nothing for several days, during which she found herself increasingly short-tempered, ill at ease, and in a near-constant state of aggravation. Her maids and servants began to avoid her for fear of drawing her ire and subjecting themselves to lengthy scoldings or lectures, her guards patrolling with more vigilance than ever before so as not to displease her with news of an untimely breach or attack by malicious intruders. 

Kassandra, for her part, grew ever more petulant and withdrawn. While she remained patient with Phoibe, and followed Aspasia’s forced orders in name alone, her morning round of training with the guards seemed often only a moment from taking a nasty turn, limbs held too long or too forcefully in locks and some blows even bringing blood. Afterwards, the _misthios_ would spend long hours sulking in the stables, as though the presence of her horse calmed her, yet she always returned to the villa derisive and antagonistic. Aspasia was sure it was only a matter of time before she caught the scoundrel with a maid, in a fight, or neck-deep in the wine stores.

As early evening fell on the third day, Aspasia composed herself, dismissed her guards to their various patrols, and went to find her _misthios_. It was time.

Kassandra was in her room, by now grown visibly agitated with her new restrictions, pacing restlessly like an animal who had been caged after a life of freedom. At the sight of Aspasia entering her room, she gave an impatient huff and continued her pacing without speaking.

When it became clear her _misthios_ was not going to stop, Aspasia broke the tense silence between them. “I have a proposition for you,” she said, picking her words with care.

“Oh?” Kassandra burst out, as though she had been lying in wait for an argument. “Another _mal_ _ákas_ rule for me to follow, perhaps, otherwise you strip me of everything and leave me penniless in the street?” 

“No,” Aspasia said quietly, only slightly taken aback by her vehemence. Kassandra was angry, and lashing out. It was to be expected for one who had lived their life rather freely until now. “I—no.”

Kassandra at last seemed to notice Aspasia’s reticence and stopped her relentless pacing. “Well? What is it, then?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest dubiously.

Aspasia opened her mouth and then closed it, struggling with how to compose her request. For a woman who had written dozens of compelling and passionate speeches given at the Pnyx before crowds of hundreds, if not thousands of ranting Athenian citizens, this was surprisingly difficult. The increasing look of impatience on Kassandra’s face did not help.

“I would like to—to make an arrangement to our agreement,” she fumbled out. 

The _misthios_ sneered. “Arrangement? What sort of arrangement?”

“A personal one,” Aspasia said, and then winced. This was not going as she had imagined. 

Now Kassandra just seemed angry _and_ confused. “ _What?_ ”

“What I mean to say—to—to propose is—” She hesitated then, balking at the height of the ledge she was about to jump from. Suddenly the room felt overwhelmingly hot and her mouth was dry. Words vanished from her mind, leaving her speechless.

Exasperated, Kassandra turned away, waving a hand as if to dismiss her. “If my lady cannot even express her wishes—”

“ _Mal_ _á_ _ka_ ,” Aspasia swore under her breath, feeling a mortifying flush crawl up her neck, and then said, louder than she’d wanted, “I want you to fuck me.”

The room was utterly silent. Neither of them spoke. Aspasia did not think they even breathed. She was momentarily horrified with herself, that she had actually said the words, _I want you to fuck me._ A crass statement, when it came down to it. She had meant to put it far more delicately than that, though perhaps this was better, more along the lines of what the _misthios_ could understand.

Kassandra, staring at her with her mouth hanging slightly open, seemed at last to remember she could speak, and repeated slowly, “You want me to—?” At once, she bristled in disbelief, and spat out, “Can I refuse, or is this to be expected along with the rest of my duties?” 

Insulted, Aspasia snapped, “Of course you can refuse, I would never force—!”

Speaking over her, Kassandra added bitterly, “I am being paid to watch over and protect you—am I being paid to fuck you now as well?”

At that cutting offense, Aspasia was prepared to either slap the _misthios_ like she had weeks ago or spin on her heel and leave. Her dignity nearly demanded it. Truthfully, she had not expected the other woman to so blatantly refuse her. Did she really find Aspasia so disgusting, that she would demand payment to even touch her, when it took so much effort and policing to keep her greedy paws off the other servants and maids?

Something, perhaps the remnants of her shattered pride, forced Aspasia to stay where she was. She swallowed thickly, feeling the itch of a slow bead of sweat trickling down her spine. She looked into the _misthios_ ’s eyes, saw the challenge there, the subtle malice and the undeniable focus and power. And something else, behind it all. Something she could not entirely read.

“I will pay you,” she said quietly, perfectly aware of how humiliating this was and wondering why she had not walked away yet. Perhaps because she was a scared, lonely little fool, afraid for her life, desperate for contact and longing for comfort of any sort.

Kassandra said nothing. Then, infuriatingly, the corner of her lip quirked upwards, as though struggling to contain a mean-spirited smile. “Is this why you bought Phobos?” she said.

Indignation flared. Of all the convoluted ideas—! “I did _not_ buy you a horse so you would fuck me!” Aspasia snarled shrilly, because she hadn’t. Yes, she had used the horse as leverage to try and curb Kassandra's obnoxious behavior, but not for this, never for this. Aspasia would never stoop so low.

The smug grin on Kassandra’s face faded. She frowned, then tipped her head slightly to the side, taking a moment to look Aspasia slowly up and down. Aspasia was at once hyper-aware of her scrutiny and stood strictly upright with head proudly upraised, relieved in her decision to approach the _misthios_ not undressed for bed, but in her full daily regalia—the dark curls of her hair properly arranged and clasped by a thin blue headband across her brow, luxuriant lengths of blue and white silks draped across her narrow hips and crooked elbows, her wide golden necklace and fine-cut jewelry sparkling in the room's weak torchlight. She wanted the _misthios_ to know exactly who was here in the room with her—Aspasia, one of the de-facto rulers of the great city of Athens. She had nothing to hide. They were not in a foul, stinking prison anymore, and there was no reason for trying to disguise exactly who she was. 

“You are a beautiful woman,” Kassandra said suddenly, tone flat, raising one muscular shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “You are Aspasia, wife of the late Perikles. Surely you have no shortage of romantic suitors. There should be no need for you to pay a lowly _misthios_ to take you to bed.”

“And that is why I must,” Aspasia said bitterly, because it was true. “Because I _am_ Aspasia, wife of the late Perikles. I am known throughout the city, _misthios._ I will be seen if I go to the _hetaerae_. If I take another lover, be it a sophist, philosopher, or politician, it will only be a matter of time before they try to take my power from me, or influence my decisions to their favor. That is what we do, we who have built this city from the bones up. It is in our nature. And so I refuse to let that happen.” 

Again, a painful silence fell between them. Aspasia waited, hardly daring to breathe, for Kassandra to either accept her proposal or refuse and bid her leave. When the _misthios_ still did not speak, she had a moment of panic and lost her nerve—truly, Kassandra’s protracted silence was answer enough, she realized, and accepted that she had been denied. She whirled, prepared to flee the room at once, and gasped when Kassandra abruptly caught her by the arm, holding her fast. She jerked away.

“Apologies,” Kassandra said quickly, retreating several steps back with hand upraised.

“Do not apologize,” Aspasia replied in a stiff tone, raising her chin defiantly. “You have given me my answer, _misthios_. Now let me leave here with at least some of my dignity intact.”

“I haven’t refused,” Kassandra said flatly. “I am still considering your request.” She paused, and Aspasia hated how her hopes leapt at those words. 

“Well?” she said bitterly, uncomfortable with being so obviously under the _misthios_ ’s command.

After a moment, Kassandra appeared frustrated, shaking her head and saying, “I still do not understand—”

“I want you to fuck me,” Aspasia interrupted harshly. “What else do you need to know?”

Kassandra looked at her searchingly and lifted that magnificent shoulder of hers once again. “...Why?”

Aspasia took a breath and was horrified to find tears pricking the corners of her eyes. This was the most mortifying experience she’d ever had. Steeling herself so her voice would not shake, she bit out, “What answer do you wish to hear? Because I am frigid and my husband never dared to touch me? Because I am lonely and desperate and afraid, surrounded by enemies at all sides and seeking the only sort of comfort I can find from a _mal_ _ákas_ cur who—?”

“Stop,” Kassandra said forcefully, and Aspasia drew herself up short, reigning her emotions back under her control. When she was once again composed, Kassandra said, “I meant only, why _me_?”

Aspasia looked at her helplessly and gave a shrug of her own. Because she desired her, despite herself. Because she wanted those big, battle-hardened hands on her like all the others. Because she wanted to forget about the world around them, just for a moment.

Now Kassandra looked thoughtful, as if she were actually considering it. Then, as if finding one last excuse, she said, “But you hate me.”

In answer, Aspasia gave her a dark, searing look, heavy with feeling and all the lusty desire she’d ever felt for the infernal woman since they’d met in the portside prison. Yes, she hated the _misthios_. But that didn’t mean she didn’t want her.

Thankfully, Kassandra did not crow with triumph or laugh in Aspasia’s face. Instead, her expression grew thoughtful once again, then, strangely, determined. She nodded almost imperceptibly—Aspasia’s heart swelled in her throat—and then shifted to stand with her hands clasped behind her back and feet apart, like a soldier at attention before their commanding officer. She seemed to be waiting for something. _An order?_ Aspasia guessed, then realized with a surge of heat that the _misthios_ was waiting to see if Aspasia wanted to be fucked _now_. 

_Already?_ she thought frantically. _Here? In the_ misthios _’s room?_ She had not considered it, coming here at this hour, but they were alone, and Kassandra seemed willing, if not a little detached, but Aspasia was not buying her affection, she was buying her hands and her mouth and—

She swallowed thickly and felt another bead of sweat trickle slowly down her neck. Her heart was suddenly pounding. She flicked her eyes up to Kassandra’s face—impassive yet intense, watching her with all the keen-eyed patience of a wolf stalking a doe—and then reached back and eased the door behind her fully shut.

Her _misthios_ read the message clearly and waited a moment before stepping closer. She was so very tall, looming head and shoulders over Aspasia. A hot prickle swept down her spine at the nearness of the _misthios_ , as though she were being confronted by a huge, formidable minotaur, and not a woman. Her breath was hot and sweet-smelling, like wine, her body heavy with the scent of sweat and the sun. When the _misthios_ leaned the slightest bit down, Aspasia turned her face away but made no other move. They did not need to kiss.

Seeming to agree, Kassandra instead skirted her lips over the delicate furl of Aspasia’s ear, taking a handful of her silken _chiton_ and beginning to draw it upwards. Her movements were slow, deliberate, and practiced. The warm, stuffy air in the room drew goosebumps up Aspasia’s bare legs and she suppressed a shiver, forcing her knees still to stop them from quivering as she was gradually bared. Kassandra lowered her head further so her lips hovered near Aspasia’s sweaty neck, breathing warmly over her nape. Holding her silks up with one hand, she laid her other on the outside of Aspasia’s thigh. Aspasia nearly jumped, stifling a gasp in her throat. She had not been touched there in a long time by another person. It was almost startling to feel it now.

Kassandra waited, perhaps sensing Aspasia’s tension, then gradually moved upwards once she relaxed. Her fingers were terribly rough against her fair skin, Aspasia noticed. Nothing like Perikles’ had been, or any other man or woman who had so much as touched her casually. Her hands were broader, too, and far, far stronger. Aspasia felt the breath rush from her lungs in a muffled whimper when the one on her thigh rose to cradle the plush curve of her hip with a ferocious, yet gentle strength.

She felt a tug at her waist and shot out a hand. “No,” she whispered, and Kassandra obeyed and ceased attempting to loosen the belt of her _chiton_. It had been difficult enough to simply walk here into the _misthios_ ’s quarters. For Aspasia to undress within them was far too much. Hadn’t she bared her vulnerable throat enough for this bloodthirsty beast?

Unperturbed, Kassandra slid the palm on Aspasia’s hip around to her inner thigh. She seemed to falter when her fingers met sudden, slippery wetness. Aspasia kept her face turned away, acutely aware of an embarrassed flush scorching her throat and ears. Surely the _misthios_ thought her a wanton _pornai_ , to already be so wet and desperate for her touch.

Kassandra said nothing. Her movements became firmer, more deliberate. Two fingers traced the wet seam of Aspasia’s swollen cleft, parting her _mouní_ as she took quick, shaky breaths and swallowed down her moans. When the _misthios_ rubbed soft, and then hard circles against the part of her that made her knees threaten to buckle, one of the moans broke free, a soft, breathy, “ _oh_.” She thought she heard the _misthios_ chuckle in her ear in response, but was not certain, because at that moment, the fingers making a mess of her slid further back, one curling upwards and easing itself deep inside her.

“ _Ahn!_ ” Aspasia could not help it—she lurched forwards and seized the muscle-knotted arm of the hand between her thighs, fingernails digging hard enough to draw blood. Kassandra did not even flinch. Aspasia’s eyelids fluttered at the incredible fullness of the lone finger—she risked a glance down, and watched, enraptured, as Kassandra slowly eased her finger out of her _mouní_ , sopping wet, only to return with two. 

Aspasia lungs rattled and seized. Kassandra’s fingers were so broad, so long, she had a brief moment of panic, sure they would not fit inside her. As they began to pierce her, she breathed in sharply and rose to the balls of her feet, grabbing Kassandra by the wrist now to slow her down, a sound like a muffled squeak escaping her lips. Kassandra, perfectly disciplined and obedient as she had never been before, stilled her hand and waited, allowing Aspasia, still risen on tip-toe, to choose when to slowly lower herself upon those long, relentless fingers, easing them within her soaked, swollen tightness with a low hiss emerging between clenched teeth.

Once she was seated fully inside, her large knuckles hitting resistance at the back of her _mouní_ and the rest of her hard fist jabbing into the delicate skin of her inner thighs, Kassandra made a low sound of pleasure and twitched her fingers apart. Aspasia jerked and gasped sharply, swallowing back curses at the exquisite feel as the fingers inside her crooked against her throbbing front wall, then spread her apart. Her insides spasmed, as if in sympathy, beads of dew dripping down Kassandra’s wrist in glistening threads.

“I—” Aspasia choked out, and then moaned deliriously as Kassandra began a slow, tortuous thrusting motion. Aspasia’s hips swayed, trying to follow the rhythm, panting loudly and still clutching at Kassandra’s forearm but unable to control her at all, feeling her own dripping wetness smeared stickily under her palm, clamped to Kassandra's flexing wrist. “I—”

“Shhhh,” Kassandra whispered in her ear, her arm twisting and contracting, muscles bulging as she sank her fingers back in to the hilt. Slowly, she went, so terribly slowly, until—

When Aspasia’s climax came, it nearly hurt with its intensity. It struck almost without warning, with all the force of a rogue ocean wave capsizing a fleet of ships. Her spine arched, forcing her back onto straining tiptoe, legs quivering to keep her balance. As soon as the tremors weakened, she slumped forward against the _misthios_ for only a second to catch her breath before quickly pushing away, wincing at the feel of Kassandra’s fingers slipping roughly out of her. 

Turning away, she focused on fixing her rumpled _chiton_ with shaking hands, her breath rattling in her throat and her heart pounding in her ears. She could not look at Kassandra’s visibly wet hand, embarrassed by the evidence of her own reaction.

“I— I—” she tried, swallowed, and rasped, “You—you have my thanks, _misthios_. I must—I must go.” With that, she whirled and practically ran for the door.

“ _Chaire_ ,” Kassandra called to her back, in a tone that seemed appropriately sedate, yet at the same time, unbearably smug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “ancient greek word for pussy”  
> \- a literal google search I made while writing this


	4. The Consequences of Passion

Aspasia swore to herself that now that it had happened, that she had given in to her own heated, long-festering desires and presented the restless wolf in her house a hearty meal, she would not be so weak or break so easily a second time. Her body was sated, tender and sore from their single encounter, her nerves frazzled and skin gone so sensitive she had trouble sleeping that night. It could not possibly desire her _misthios_ again so soon after their frantic coupling, nor so fiercely. There was simply no way.

And then the very next morning she came out upon the villa yard for an early walk in her gardens, the morning rays of the bright Athenian sun warming the earth beneath her sandaled feet and the air fresh with the scent of figs and hyacinth, and found Kassandra in the midst of a dozen Athenian guards, training the men as she did most mornings now. The _misthios_ was in a noticeably better mood than the day before, laughing and goading the men along, competing with them to demonstrate her superior physical prowess. Already, her powerful body, clad in a short, rough _chiton_ was limned with sweat, her flexing muscles primed and flushed from the rigorous exercise. 

The world seemed to snap inwards, all focus bending toward the sweating, panting _misthios_. Aspasia stared, her mouth falling partially open, feeling as if there was no air for her to breathe despite being outside. Adani had to ask twice what was wrong before Aspasia realized she had come to a complete and sudden halt right in the middle of the yard so conspicuously that even some of the training men were staring at her curiously. At once, Kassandra noticed the commotion and turned toward Aspasia. Their eyes met. 

A filthy, wicked thrill shot down Aspasia’s spine, spreading throughout her limbs like a numbing fire and making her head feel light and fuzzy. With effort, she ripped her gaze away and hurriedly finished making her way across the yard, tripping lightly on a loose stone in her haste just before reaching the gate to her private gardens. Flustered by her own clumsiness and irritated with her embarrassing behavior, she refused to look back until she had reached her favored spot at the garden’s epicenter, where a comfortable _kline_ and a small table sat in relative solitude, surrounded by tall flowering bushes, yearling trees, and buzzing hummingbirds. She waved dismissively when Adani asked if she needed anything else, suddenly eager to be alone.

As soon as her maid’s footsteps faded away, Aspasia poured herself a generous portion of wine from a nearby _amphora_ and drank deeply, then took a moment to compose herself in the privacy the thick-leafed trees and bushes gifted her, breathing hard with a dizzying mixture of headiness and anticipation, mortified by what had happened in the yard and yet hardly daring to believe—no, _hoping_ her _misthios_ might—

There was a rustle, and then Kassandra appeared, looking once again faintly smug and yet somehow utterly indifferent. She was still panting lightly from the exertion of training the men, beads of sweat rolling down her neck and shoulders, one dripping noticeably off her chin. Aspasia tore her eyes away from the sight of her damply glowing, golden skin, dangerously aware of the way her muscled limbs seemed about to burst from the thin _chiton_ she wore and the overwhelming musky scent of her warm body, like a heady perfume.

“What do you want, _misthios_?” she demanded harshly.

Kassandra smirked and merely stood at attention, hands behind her back and sandaled feet apart, as she had done last night, in her room. Just before she—

“Does my lady need anything?” she asked innocently. 

Aspasia’s breath caught in her throat. How impudent, to assume that she—that she could possibly want—here, in the gardens, first thing in the morning? Scandalous. She hadn’t ordered the _misthios_ to follow her here, and even if she had—even if—

When she looked up, prepared to dismiss her, the _misthios_ ’s eyes were dark, low-lidded and searing. Aspasia shivered wickedly, and something within her gave in, all pretense melting away in less than a moment. At once her stance—stiff, defensive, unapproachable—shifted almost instinctively into one far more encouraging, her head tipping back slightly, her shoulders lowering, her hips cocking fractionally toward the other woman, as if in invitation. 

At that, Kassandra’s eyes filled with an intent, feral satisfaction. Aspasia hated her then, more than ever, hated that immediately, with a single glance of that scarred, haughty face and those deep, tawny eyes, she was wet and ready and willing to do quite literally anything.

Biting her lip, Aspasia quickly considered her options—it would be safest to return inside, preferably to either her or the _misthios_ ’s bedroom, where proper privacy could be ensured, but shamefully she was not certain if her legs would support her the entire way, not with Kassandra looming nearby like that, still sweating profusely and smelling like a powerful racehorse straining at the bit, eager to be released at the gate. 

Shocked by her own daring, Aspasia instead took several steps backwards until she was leaning her hips against her little garden table, normally used for work and the reading of important scrolls. She would never look at it the same way again after today, she was sure.

Kassandra lingered a moment, as if cruelly considering making Aspasia ask again, or perhaps even beg for it—and she just might, with the way her body was aching so just then, dignity be damned—then strode confidently forward until she stood only inches from the smaller woman. Aspasia’s neck cricked painfully just from looking up at her. Her sheer presence was practically overpowering, and she felt her mouth water and her knees tremble at her suffocating nearness.

Again, as she had done only the night before, Kassandra leaned her head down, as if requesting permission to kiss her, and Aspasia once more turned her face away in refusal. Kissing was not part of their arrangement. This would not be negotiated.

Thankfully, the _misthios_ did not complain, and instead raised a broad hand to gently grip Aspasia by the chin, pulling her face further to the side and up to bare the slender length of her throat, her rough-padded thumb stroking over Aspasia’s full bottom lip. Her breath was hot and calm, puffing out against the delicate underside of Aspasia’s jaw, while Aspasia’s came short and quick and frantic, like a startled doe, moments from panic. When the _misthios_ ’s hot, insistent mouth touched her skin, Aspasia’s eyes rolled up into her head and she released a slow, shaky breath of something like relief.

A questioning hand cupped her clothed breast, and Aspasia stifled a start. The hand halted and did not move, waiting to see if Aspasia would tear it away. When she didn’t, it squeezed briefly, and Aspasia swallowed a soft yelp at the feel. A calloused thumb brushed over the bump of her erect nipple, catching on the delicate weave of her robes, and she shuddered even at the dulled sensation, already swaying in place. 

Suddenly she felt stifled and trapped by her clothing, struggling to breathe. With furtive eyes, she again checked their surroundings—her guards never came into her private gardens unless ordered, and Adani had already been curtly dismissed. She would not check back for some time. Feeling foolish and daring and lusty most of all, Aspasia breathed out an answer to the unspoken question hovering between them with a soft, hissing, “ _Yes_.”

With clever fingers, Kassandra immediately undid the clasps of her blue silk _himation_ and swiftly removed it, slinging it on the nearby _kline_ and leaving Aspasia in her thin, white, ankle-length _chiton_. Kassandra found the fasteners at her arms and shoulders and loosened them, and with a cool, watery feel, the silk puddled downwards, catching at Aspasia’s belt and baring her upper torso to the lush gardens and the golden morning sun. 

Aspasia hardly dared to breathe. The air on her naked breasts was warm but still stiffened her nipples to hard buds, and when the _misthios_ pulled away from nosing hotly about her neck to give her chest a long, hungry look, her entire body began to tingle. The big, rough palm returned to her breast and squeezed firmly, making her stutter out a moan as wonderfully rough, teasing fingers began to flick and rub her nipple back and forth until it was aching and tender.

Kassandra made a pleased sound in the back of her throat and lowered her head once again, though this time she seemed intent on another sort of kiss entirely. Her mouth opened and sealed around Aspasia’s unabused breast, sucking lightly with a rasping tongue. Aspasia melted, head thrown back and spine arching, jutting her chest further forward. The rough hand still holding her chin in place tightened slightly, the thumb on her bottom lip continuing to stroke the damp bow in time with the hot, sucking mouth on her tingling nipple.

The _misthios_ groaned lightly and switched to Aspasia’s other breast, her free hand shifting over and twisting at Aspasia’s wet nipple. Aspasia squirmed and gasped, parting her legs so Kassandra could stand between them, her knees clamping vainly around the _misthios_ ’s hard, muscular thighs as the table behind her jostled and threatened to fall over.

Desperate not to moan too loudly, she turned her head further toward her shoulder. The motion shifted the hand still gripping her chin, and the thumb on her lip slipped into her open mouth. Rather than bite down or pull it out, Aspasia found herself drawing it further in and sucking, hard. 

Immediately, the _misthios_ released a rumbling growl and rutted once, rude and filthy, against the delicate cradle of Aspasia’s hips, jarring her entire body backwards. Aspasia's breath left her and she nearly wailed at the feel of Kassandra's big, hard body pressed so tightly against hers. The profound sense of a great trembling strength barely held in check gave Aspasia a dizzy thrill, and she moaned again and sucked harder on the thumb in her mouth, swirling her tongue around it. The fingers on her breast abandoned her nipple and moved downwards with intent. Using her knee to help pin the fabric in place and out of the way, Kassandra drew up her silken _chiton_ until she could get to the humid warmth beneath, her fingers quickly finding the source and getting to work, rubbing at the slippery mess between Aspasia’s legs with alacrity.

Head swimming, Aspasia fought for focus, but her senses were blurred and indistinct. Everything—the foolhardy daring of her publicly exposed nudity, the underlying danger of doing such an illicit thing in her open gardens, the thrill of possible discovery, the _misthios_ ’s hot mouth and busy fingers, her very presence, formidable and overwhelming—collapsed into one single sensation of grasping pleasure, and Aspasia climaxed powerfully, sinking her teeth into the digit still locked in her mouth to stifle her hoarse cry. The _misthios_ gave no sign of pain, just pressed the pad of her thumb against Aspasia’s tongue until the wracking spasms of her body had passed and she slumped back, supporting herself on the rickety garden table with quivering limbs.

By the time she caught her breath, her mind had cleared and the direness of their situation presented itself fully. Slapping the _misthios_ ’s lingering hands away, Aspasia shakily dressed herself, quickly refastening her hopelessly wrinkled _chiton_ to cover her chest, the silk feeling suddenly harsh against the still throbbing skin of her nipples and breasts. Her thighs were slick and trembling, her _mouní_ pounding, and she stood with effort before crossing over to collapse on the nearby _kline_ , trying to seem imperious and stern as she waved her _misthios_ away. 

“That will be all,” she said weakly. 

Kassandra nodded and left, but that parting look on her face—not quite a leer or a grin, but smug all the same, like a well-fed wolf lazing after a successful kill—made Aspasia shiver and press her damp thighs together in keen discomfort, feeling wonderfully sore and satisfied and yet still so bereft and empty.

For the rest of the morning, she avoided the _misthios_ as best she could, afraid of her own poor willpower to refuse if the scoundrel so much as looked at her suggestively. Kassandra seemed to respect her efforts and kept away, spending time with her horse and attending Phoibe during their archery lessons, though Aspasia did note several times the _misthios_ watching her from a distance, seeming strangely protective. It confused her until she remembered why, exactly, she had hired the woman in the first place—to protect her from the very real possibility of an attack by murderous assassins—and at once felt stupid and naive for her lapse in logic, and so spent the evening in a foul mood.

—

The next day, after a lengthy debate at the Pnyx that went on far longer than Aspasia had anticipated, fatigued by the endless arguing of her colleagues and back-and-forth disagreements with a particularly stubborn Kleon that had taken up virtually all of her morning—as well as part of her afternoon—Aspasia made a trip to the city’s renowned public baths, seeking to relax in the clear water and warm mists within. Once arrived, she noticed a large number of patrons milling in the bathing chambers, and paid an attendant for one of the more private pools. In due course, she was led to a section of the building relatively secluded from the rest. 

Inside, she automatically disrobed, removed her sandals and jewelry, loosened her hair, and took several steps down into the warm pool of heated water before realizing with a start that Kassandra, who had been conspicuously silent until now, was watching her intently, eyes fastened on her naked body with bold, marked interest. As Aspasia was the one bathing, and not her, her _misthios_ had not undressed, and now the silk of Kassandra's fine _chiton_ had grown damp in the wet heat of the room, clinging to her hard muscles, her bronze skin gleaming like burnished metal and those broad hands of hers—

Hastily, Aspasia stepped the rest of the way into the bath, not caring if she splashed, and lowered herself to sit so she was up to her shoulders in the pleasantly warm water. An attendant came to adjust the temperature, adding heated rocks at Aspasia’s terse orders until the water was almost scorching, thick clouds of steam rising into the air. Dismissed, the attendant left, and Aspasia forced herself to relax, focusing on wiping her face and limbs clean with a shaped pumice stone followed by a warm pass of a soft, wet cloth.

When she dared glance over again, Kassandra was lounging atop the lip of the bath, looking nowhere near as bored as she had this morning at the Pnyx. Noticing her sudden attention, Kassandra grinned down at her invitingly. 

“Do you need anything?” she asked goadingly, leaning back on the steps on her elbows in a way that made the muscles along her arms and shoulders flex beautifully, her eyes fastened decidedly below Aspasia’s neck. 

“No,” Aspasia replied sharply, and turned her body so Kassandra would stop ogling her naked breasts so obviously, though when she glanced over her shoulder at her a minute later, she found Kassandra ogling the length of her naked back instead, a dangerously familiar hungry fire lurking in her eyes. 

Temptation reared. All it would take was a single crooked finger to have the _misthios_ join her in the bath, Aspasia thought. It could be fast. No one would know. The attendant would not come back for some time. There was almost no denial or resistance to the fact that her _misthios_ could fuck her here—as soon as Aspasia recognized the possibility, she wanted it, almost badly enough to cause pain.

By now her body was pink from the heat of the water, and she felt dizzy and weak, swooning where she sat on the carved marble steps, chest-deep in the steaming water. Without turning around, she said, “Come here,” in a low voice with almost no command in it.

At once, Kassandra stood and joined her in the bath, pausing only to remove her sandals, paying no heed to her quickly soaked _chiton_. When the water reached her waist, she stopped and reached for Aspasia, who did not resist as the _misthios_ lifted her effortlessly upright, water streaming from her naked body in rivulets. She clung to Kassandra’s hard forearms, not even attempting to cover herself, already helpless with need.

The hunger in Kassandra’s face deepened, her eyes tracing from Aspasia’s glistening breasts to the soaked dark hair between her thighs. Carefully, she eased herself backwards and then sat on the nearest bath step, where the water lapped only to her muscular thighs, and arranged Aspasia to straddle her hips so they were facing each other, Aspasia’s dripping _mouní_ hovering just shy of the heated pool.

Kassandra cupped her face in that broad palm of hers, and Aspasia was sure the _misthios_ was going to try and kiss her again. Why the woman seemed so obsessed with the meaningless gesture, she couldn’t fathom. Both times before, she had made sure to pull away quickly, but today she was weak, pulse pumping thick and sluggish in her veins from the heat of the water. This time, when the _misthios_ leaned in, she did not pull away.

Kassandra kissed her, hard and deep. A high-pitched moan erupted from Aspasia’s throat at the feel of her wet, insistent mouth, lips slippery from the warm steam, stroking at her own so sweetly. She had not been kissed in such a way in many months—years, perhaps. The _misthios_ was a furious, passionate kisser. Within only a few seconds, Aspasia was swooning. Distantly, she wondered how she could have ever considered _not_ kissing her. A foolish idea, indeed.

For a time, they did nothing but kiss—mouths open and greedy and wet, Kassandra’s lips sucking at each of her own and her tongue lapping at Aspasia’s lips and teeth, swallowing each other’s low moans and huffed breaths in an effort to stay quiet. At last, Kassandra’s big, rough hands dipped downwards, sweeping over Aspasia’s damp, naked flanks and squeezing at the wings of her hipbones briefly before moving inward to rest against her inner thigh, knuckles dragging through the steaming water just beneath. 

“Hurry,” Aspasia gasped against her open mouth, already aching for her touch.

“When I fuck women,” Kassandra growled back, giving her a little nip of her sharp white teeth, as if to chastise her impatience, “I do not hurry.”

Aspasia was ready to snarl, to order the infuriating churl to obey and follow her orders at once, when two fingers abruptly slid inside of her without a hint of resistance. Even without the water from the baths, her _mouní_ was soaked and slippery and open. Her back arched reflexively, breasts rising into Kassandra’s appreciative face as her body hitched and rippled at the pleasant intrusion. Her nipples, red and swollen from the hot water, hardened in an instant. Kassandra bit one lightly and began to pull and twist at the other with her free hand in a way that was nearly cruel. 

True to the _misthios_ ’s word, she was certainly not rushing, and yet Aspasia, within minutes, felt her head begin to spin. Kassandra lowered her mouth and sunk her teeth harder than before, sucking furiously at her chest, bringing a raised bruise to the delicate skin of Aspasia’s breast, then did it again, and again, the fingers in her _mouní_ relentlessly spearing her wet heat without pause. On her next breath, Aspasia moaned and clenched and spasmed around the hand between her legs, and then slumped sideways, saved from floundering in the water by Kassandra quickly catching her and holding her against her shoulder.

As soon as she could move again, Aspasia straightened and seized Kassandra by the chin, digging her fingernails so hard she nearly broke skin. Kassandra did not even wince, though she did go completely still, anticipating rebuke.

“Do _not_ leave marks on me,” Aspasia growled out, one word at a time. Her chest, damp from steam, was now covered in bruises from her _misthios_ ’s eager mouth. If any of Aspasia’s other attendants saw them, they would know she had taken a lover and rumors would abound.

Looking not the least bit chastened by the furious demand, Kassandra simply said, “Apologies.”

Being very careful not to slip, Aspasia stood shakily from the _misthios_ ’s firm lap, acutely aware of her nakedness and the proximity of the other woman’s body to her own. Before she could be touched again, she splashed out of the pool and threw her clothes back onto her still-wet body, refusing to take the time to properly dry herself. Kassandra watched with obvious appreciation as the expensive silks stuck to Aspasia’s skin and turned translucent in places. 

Scowling, Aspasia snapped, “Not a word,” and with her _misthios_ in tow, returned home.

—

Several weeks passed, quicker than Aspasia could keep track of them; existing under the constant daunting threat of the Cult's next attack and burdened by the accumulated expectations of an entire city, time did not seem to exist properly anymore. During the past few months and blurring into the more recent days, her life had become a hazy mixture of an ever increasing bone-deep fatigue, stolid but wavering determination, heart-clenching anticipation, lingering fear, and, far more recently, an astonishingly powerful flare of all-encompassing passion. 

Nearly every day, the _misthios_ fucked her. Publicly, she treated Aspasia with nothing but overt professionalism—unlike her usual flamboyant uncouthness with the maids—and in private, never touched or even approached her with intent without Aspasia herself initiating it. Aspasia did not find this disheartening—she knew, by the firmness of her _misthios_ ’s passionate touches and the heat of her fervent kisses, that she was not the only one who took some enjoyment from their couplings. Kassandra had not agreed to their arrangement unwillingly; of that, she was sure. 

Still, she was not foolish enough to believe Kassandra fucked her simply because she wanted to, and made certain to include an extra stipend for the... "services" when the _misthios_ was paid at the end of each week, which the other woman always took without comment or complaint. What she spent her _drachmae_ on, Aspasia did not know or care, so long as she did not get into too much trouble, though she would not put it past the ruffian to blow it all on drink, women, or unseemly gambling.

As the days passed and their new, intimate arrangement held steady, Aspasia was mildly shocked to find her own burgeoning sexual appetite did not falter—in fact, it seemed to swell to match Kassandra’s, whose prowess and stamina had always seemed godly in comparison. Simply put, Aspasia wanted to be fucked, and Kassandra was always happy to appease her, sometimes even more than once a day. Aspasia did not quite know who was the wolf anymore. Even when she was younger, her lusty urges had never been so wild, so desperate, nor so wonderfully and thoroughly satiated.

It was all terribly confusing, in a way. Aspasia was not certain why she took such satisfaction from her _misthios_ when at times the woman brought her to the brink of her patience and sanity. Perhaps it was the lingering knowledge that one day, the masked assassins of the Cult of Kosmos would return, and the closer she was to her _misthios_ , quite literally, the safer she would be—as witnessed from the previous attack, Aspasia knew Kassandra was more than capable of protecting and defending her. There was a sense of comfort just to have her nearby, brushing her horse or training with Phoibe, or hear her shifting about in the next room late at night while trying to sleep. It also helped that the _misthios_ was not so distracted in the evening hours anymore, fucking whichever maid had slipped quietly through her doors. Now, instead, she was fucking the mistress of the villa herself.

But that was also a distraction in itself, Aspasia recognized, one that affected the both of them, a weakness with the possibility to be exploited by prying eyes. Perhaps one day they would be too busy fucking each other to see the enemies gathering at their doors. Aspasia was sure her estate was not completely free of spies, and eventually, the knowledge of her and the _misthios_ would leak, and then the Cult would smell blood and come running.

Troubled by her thoughts, Aspasia forced herself to work through the afternoon and into the early evening, looking over official documents drafted for trade taxes between Athens and the rest of Attika. When she lifted her head, hours later, her neck cracking faintly from being held in one position for so long, the sky had gone dark, and in the light of the torches placed around her villa, she found her _misthios_ nearby, petting and cooing at her golden eagle, Ikaros. 

Kassandra looked up as Aspasia stood from her seat, grimacing briefly at her sore back, and stood as well, giving Ikaros a boost from her fist to send the large bird soaring, then turned to Aspasia expectantly. 

She did that often, now, Aspasia had noticed—lingered and watched her with those intense, tawny eyes of hers, as though waiting for a signal, or a particular look—or, dare she say, hoping for one. Aspasia glared, annoyed not only by her _misthios_ ’s presumption that perhaps her mistress desired her company, but also that she was nearly always correct in that regard.

After a long, worrying day of burying her underlying fear of death beneath dozens of important scrolls and missives, Aspasia indeed wanted Kassandra tonight, though a small part of her was tempted to refuse her, simply out of spite. Though her obnoxious behavior had improved overall, she still found the _misthios_ just as if not more insufferable than ever, especially once she had let her fuck her, as now Kassandra had something to hold over her, an advantage to be abused, if the other woman were so inclined. 

Yet somehow, despite her aggravation, despite the smug look on her _misthios_ ’s face, despite everything, Aspasia simply could not deny that she needed her again.

“Come,” she said sternly, and led the _misthios_ through the villa and up the stairs to her rooms, ignoring the curious looks of several servants as they passed. At first, Aspasia had been confident they were being discreet, though recently, she had begun to doubt herself. All it would take was a single attendant in the wrong hallway at the wrong time for them to be discovered. Kassandra, thankfully, followed her with an blankly innocent expression and her usual sullen demeanor, looking otherwise appropriately servile and obedient, though Aspasia was not sure for how much longer the ruse of the warrior being her personal attendant would work amongst her staff. That it had not already been revealed was a miracle in itself.

Once safely in the privacy of her chambers, Aspasia ordered Kassandra to bolt the door and crossed to stand by the wide bed, swamped with fat pillows and luxurious silks. The _misthios_ stayed so often in her chambers now some of her belongings were strewn about the floor or thrown into random corners—her belt with the pouch of dried meat for her bird, her second pair of sandals, her spare _chitons_. Aspasia found she hadn’t the patience nor the care to order her to remove them.

The door properly fastened, the _misthios_ approached the bed and stopped just before her. She always waited for Aspasia to give her a sign of acceptance—be it a raised hand, the tip of her head, the inviting cant of her body—before she kissed her. Aspasia gave it now, closing her eyes and turning her face upwards encouragingly. 

The _misthios_ kissed her. It was never gentle, Aspasia had come to notice. She was not sure if Kassandra knew how to kiss in any way that was not firm, or brutal, or filled with passion, though in the end, it mattered little. Aspasia was not— _could_ not be interested in soft, gentle kisses from her _misthios_. No, she needed to want her for another reason entirely.

Aspasia pulled away, then, their lips making a soft, wet sound as they separated, already breathless and quivering, and lowered herself down to sit on her plush bed. Using her arms, she pushed herself further up and reclined back onto the soft pillows, encouraging Kassandra to follow with a flick of her dark, low-lidded eyes. The _misthios_ obeyed, and as always, Aspasia felt a thrill when the wooden frame creaked under her added weight. To have Kassandra here, in the bed she once shared with her husband… The idea was entirely scandalous, not to mention improper, yet Aspasia’s back prickled just at the sight of the powerful _misthios_ climbing on top of her. Already, she was squirming her hips to and fro, terribly excited at the mere thought of those wonderfully rough hands on her sensitive skin.

“You are impatient today,” Kassandra murmured, almost sounding, of all things, _fond_. Aspasia ignored her, and the way those words made her chest tighten with something a bit too close to affection for comfort. Not for the first time, she reminded herself that she did not like her _misthios_. She never had. Yes, they had grown to tolerate each other over their time spent together, and they fucked practically every day, but nothing more. Aspasia could not allow more. Not when her mind was so clouded with the danger and duty lurking around every corner.

“Quiet,” she hissed, and pulled the _misthios_ ’s face down to kiss her fiercely. Already Kassandra’s hands were under her finely-made _chiton_ , pushing the silks upwards until she was bare from the waist down. The _misthios_ would have been happy enough to service her like that, but Aspasia forestalled her by taking a moment to remove her belt. Kassandra noticed what she was doing and decided to help, and together they pulled the robes up and over her head, casting them aside and leaving Aspasia entirely naked on the bed with the fully dressed _misthios_ hovering above. 

The wolf was ravenous today, and without hesitation Kassandra spread Aspasia’s legs with a broad palm on each bent knee and buried her face between them. As she always did when Kassandra serviced her this way, Aspasia had to fight not to buck too hard or cry out too loudly. The first time Kassandra had ever done this for her, some time back, Aspasia had shouted herself hoarse and climaxed embarrassingly quickly. Afterwards, Kassandra had taken much delight in telling Aspasia that she was flattered, and then happily admitted it was her very favorite thing to do to a woman. Aspasia had flushed and told her to be quiet, and the _misthios_ had obliged, finding another use for her mouth than speaking.

Now, Aspasia swallowed back a ragged moan as her body spasmed with pleasure and her legs tried to snap shut, held open by her _misthios_ ’s cruel grip. Kassandra’s mouth licked and sucked at her poor flushed _mouní_ like someone starved, making muffled noises of delight while Aspasia gasped and bucked and rocked back against those hungry lips and tongue. An aching tension in her lower stomach began to coil itself tighter and tighter, a heady sensation that was now wonderfully familiar to her.

While not so humiliatingly fast as before, Aspasia still climaxed more quickly than she would have liked, though even after she shuddered and went still, Kassandra did not stop her attentions, licking at her twitching _mouní_ with broad swipes of her tongue to clean her swollen pink folds of their slick wetness. Before long, Aspasia’s hips stirred anew, and she was mewling and desperate once again. 

Kassandra chuckled darkly, the sound turning Aspasia’s spine to water. Cupping her backside in her palms and giving her cheeks a rough, pawing squeeze, Kassandra lifted her hips into the air to feast more easily upon her with a hot, sucking mouth and wicked tongue, Aspasia’s limp thighs draped over the _misthios_ ’s broad shoulders.

Once again far too quickly, Aspasia shook and cried out and slumped. She had to grab the _misthios_ by the hair and yank her back when still she did not stop, too sensitive to continue. Giving her wet _mouní_ one last quick pass of her tongue, Kassandra at last obeyed and sat up on her knees. She was a mess, Aspasia’s slick gleaming all over her face and chin. Escaped strands of hair from her loosened braid stuck to her flushed cheeks and she looked glassy-eyed and drunk, as if she had imbibed too much in her favorite wine.

Aspasia had learned a short time ago that kissing her _misthios_ after such delights was a new, forbidden kind of pleasure, and did so now with trembling relish, crooking a finger until Kassandra leaned forward and kissed her roughly. Aspasia moaned, tasting herself on the _misthios_ ’s tired lips and tongue, the sticky feel of her slack mouth giving her a hot, thrilling rush.

Once her _misthios_ was relatively clean, Aspasia lay back with a sigh. The sweat on her body was beginning to cool, and the sharp, painful throb between her legs had lessened. Kassandra returned to sitting back on her heels, eyes bright and watchful, skimming over Aspasia’s naked body, vivid in the moonlight streaming through the windows and softened on the edges by the red flicker of the one lit torch in the corner.

She was waiting, Aspasia realized. To either be sent away, or given another order. Aspasia knew what she should do—dismiss her and send the _misthios_ to sleep in her own room next door—but she had never been so weak, and her body was not yet finished.

“Take off your clothes,” she whispered.

As if she had not heard her properly, Kassandra did not obey immediately, wiping what dampness Aspasia had missed off her face with one hand in a messy, haphazard sort of way, then licked her fingers slowly clean, one by one. Aspasia was shivering by the time she had finished. 

“Are you sure?” Kassandra asked, cocking her head doubtfully. 

Rather than scold her for insubordination, Aspasia could understand her hesitance. Always during their couplings did Kassandra remain fully dressed. “Do not make me repeat myself,” she hissed impatiently, using her flaring anger to cover up the rapid rise in her pulse, a new rush of heat hitting her chest and throat at the idea of what she was about to do.

In silence, Kassandra eased herself backwards and off the bed, then began to disrobe. In the moonlight, her sun-bronzed skin appeared ghostly pale and the harsh curvature of her form grew even more stark. When she stood there at the foot of Aspasia’s bed, completely naked and superbly muscled, she was not unlike a beautiful marble statue at the Parthenon, a god of war meant for the worship of lowly mortals. 

But she was not the one groveling here, Aspasia reminded herself. The _misthios_ was serving _her_ , not the other way around. Still, Aspasia could not help but admire the woman before her—she was every bit a supremely built warrior, born for battle, her limbs thick and powerful, her torso dense, shoulders broad. Aspasia was not sure she’d ever seen so fine a body. Touching it would please her, she realized distantly, though not since they’d begun their dalliances had she done so before.

Finding herself breathless with nerves, she sat up and slid off the bed to stand before the other woman, then reached forward and laid her hand on the _misthios_ ’s hard stomach. Her rigid abdomen spasmed lightly under her palm, and Aspasia sucked in a short breath at the feel, like cast metal shifting beneath soft, warmed silk. Kassandra remained outwardly unaffected, hands at her sides and stance firm, looking, of all things, bored, then hissed lightly and winced when Aspasia suddenly dug her nails in and raked them downwards. 

“You would enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Me, bringing you relief?” Aspasia said acidly, almost an accusation, annoyed by Kassandra’s feigned nonchalance—to pretend that being touched by a beautiful woman meant nothing to the _misthios_ irritated her greatly. 

For her part, the _misthios_ was silent. She made not a single move, though Aspasia could see a vein in her throat pulsing quickly, and thought she could detect a faint tremor in the hard flesh under her fingertips. She was also visibly aroused, her nipples hardened and straining and a glimpse of wetness shining between her legs. 

Aspasia trailed her hand even further down, until she touched the soft hair at the apex of Kassandra’s powerful thighs, where she was noticeably warm and damp. Kassandra’s chest went still, as if she were holding her breath—but still her _misthios_ refused to beg, to plead, to seize Aspasia’s wrist and hold it in place for her to crudely use to completion. Her discipline was commendable. Aspasia envied her composure.

Aspasia _tsk_ ed and removed her hand. For a split second, the expression on Kassandra’s face seemed almost disappointed, then quickly became blank again. Leaving her standing at attention at the foot of the bed, Aspasia turned and found the twine-bound package that had been sent to her villa several days ago. 

Earlier in the week, in a moment of only somewhat regrettable weakness, Aspasia had sent word to Alkibiades, asking under the guise of friendly advice for the means of acquiring an _olisbos_ , an item of private, personal need. Naturally, the philandering man had immediately sent back to Aspasia’s villa a mortifying amount of sexually explicit objects and aids, some of which she would not be surprised to learn were from his own personal collection. 

Though she would not consider herself a stranger to such things, Aspasia kept only one. The _olisbos_ she’d chosen, from what she could tell, had never been used, and was made of supple leather stuffed tightly with heavy wool to give it solid form and a pleasing shape. There was a weight and heft to it Aspasia liked. Following Alkibiades’s shameless but well-meaning suggestion, she had then anonymously requisitioned a special harness from a renowned leatherworker in the markets, the results of which now sat in her hands.

She presented the open box to the _misthios_ , who looked inside curiously. Her eyes flicked over the _olisbos_ with keen familiarity, but the attached harness gave her pause. Clearly, she had never seen or used one before, and the back of Aspasia’s neck prickled with excitement.

“It is for you to wear,” Aspasia explained, and hoped the _misthios_ would not require further education. Thankfully, Kassandra merely blinked once, then twice, before the faintly confused expression on her face bloomed into a fully-blown smirk of wicked, cocky delight. At the sight of her haughty arrogance, Aspasia’s temper crackled even as her body sang in anticipation. 

With sudden confidence, Kassandra took the box and removed its contents. After only several moments of study, she stepped into the harness, tightened the straps around her hips, and properly attached the _olisbos_. The sight of her, standing there in the moonlight, the hard, jutting angles of her body mixed with the feminine curves of her breasts, hips and face, renewed Aspasia’s appetite to a keen edge.

“One moment,” Kassandra said, and Aspasia nearly growled when the other woman stepped away from the bed to rifle through a nearby table laden with _amphoras_ of wine and platters of sweet fruit, replenished fresh every morning for Aspasia’s pleasure. When she returned, she held a small clay pot of olive oil. Aspasia was briefly confused, then flushed anew with realization.

Acknowledging they were undoubtedly going to ruin her sheets and failing to find it within herself to care, Aspasia returned to the bed and lay back once more against her luxuriant cushions. Kassandra followed, kneeling on the sheets with her knees apart and the _olisbos_ jutting rudely from her groin. 

As Aspasia watched, the _misthios_ poured a palmful of oil into her upturned hand and then spread it over the _olisbos_ with slow, smooth strokes, the strong, earthy scent of olives filling the air. As if to ensure there was enough, her _misthios_ poured more and repeated the motions, and the remnants, she drizzled and then smeared with her dripping fingers over Aspasia’s already slippery _mouní_ , the excess puddling coolly under the curve of her backside, making a mess of the silks beneath them.

At last, the _misthios_ discarded the jar and drew forward, navigating her hips between Aspasia’s spread thighs. Aspasia held her breath and tilted her pelvis encouragingly, and felt the first nudge and glide of a thick, welcome penetration, moaning weakly at the feeling.

Her first impression was that the _olisbos_ was cold inside her, but the leather was supple enough and the stitching so fine it was not terribly uncomfortable. Still, it was a strange sensation, as she had grown far more used to the delights of the dextrous fingers and clever tongue of her _misthios_ within her _mouní_ —this was thicker, and longer, and somehow seemed far more impersonal. 

She was distracted from her hesitance by the sudden pressure of Kassandra’s hipbones hitting hers, the muscles of her _misthios’_ s rigid stomach contracting powerfully as she finished her initial thrust, fully seated within her. Suddenly Aspasia was breathless, not from the feel of the firm _olisbos_ inside her, but from the undeniable intimacy of their position—she and her _misthios_ were face to face, the lengths of their bodies pressed entirely together, the dense weight of the woman atop her settled heavily upon her hips and torso.

Thankfully, Kassandra, who seemed to notice Aspasia’s sudden fluster, made no smart, cutting remark, and instead tilted and pressed her brow into the pillow by Aspasia’s head in concentration, her body beginning a smooth rocking motion. The muscles in her back and arms flexed and bulged as she moved, settling into a strong, steady rhythm, her hips stroking deeply, in and out. 

Whimpering beneath her, Aspasia had never felt so full. Kassandra’s breaths were quick and harsh in her ear, her bigger body a hard, pleasant pressure on her own. Their nearness was intoxicating. She clung to her _misthios’_ s bulging shoulders and splayed her legs as wide as she could, gasping and moaning with spiraling arousal. With every withdrawal of the _olisbos_ , Aspasia’s cries grew louder, and with every return, Kassandra grunted with the effort, jolting Aspasia’s smaller body from the force. Soon Aspasia had to brace herself on the bed with an outflung hand, or face falling off the side by the other woman's enthusiasm.

“ _Ah, ah, ah!_ ” she cried, dazed with pleasure, while Kassandra panted harshly in her ear, “ _Hn, hn, hngh!_ ”

Aspasia’s head spun. The room smelled overwhelmingly of musky sweat and olive oil and was loud with the sound of their messy fucking. The feeling of Kassandra’s strong, heavy body rutting against hers was maddening, the _olisbos_ a sweet, relentless spear of heat in her _mouní_. She could feel herself begin to flutter in the first throes of climax, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth in exquisite anticipation, toes curling—

Suddenly Kassandra stopped and pulled completely out. Aspasia snarled at the feeling of abrupt emptiness, every muscle in her body going tight and tingling and cramped, fingernails catching on the _misthios_ ’s hard, sweaty shoulder. “What are you _doing?_ ”

“Patience,” Kassandra _tsk_ ed. Aspasia nearly killed her. Infuriatingly, her _misthios_ waited until Aspasia ceased her breathless flailing and slumped in surrender before directing her to turn over, onto her hands and knees. “It will feel better this way for you,” she said soothingly, like one would address a disobedient student who did not know better for themself, stroking the pale bow of Aspasia’s back with a calm hand. 

Aspasia shivered and nearly sobbed in frustration. Better? How could it be better than it already was? To make matters worse, Kassandra took several painstaking moments to find and add more olive oil, though Aspasia was positive it was completely unnecessary at this point. She waited impatiently, swaying her hips from side to side, a high, keening whine building in the back of her throat. She only fell quiet when Kassandra lay a hand on her flank and gave a low, “Shhhh.”

The bed creaked accordingly, and at last, with a soft, slick sound, the _olisbos_ returned in a smoothless glide. It was warmer now from their combined body heat and did not feel so strange as before, a welcome intrusion with just the right amount of give to its solid length as the _misthios_ thrust it fully inside. 

At the feel of hard, mighty thighs meeting the backs of her trembling own, Aspasia moaned and dropped her head to the pillows. What the _misthios_ had said was true—in this position, the _olisbos_ was hitting much farther than before, the slight curve of it dragging exquisitely against her _mouní's_ clutching walls.

Words and then even thoughts escaped her, and the world shrank and became only Aspasia and her _misthios_ and the bed beneath them. Every time Kassandra thrust, the _olisbos_ squelched loudly, the sounds between her legs filthy and degrading, a frantically wet suck and clap. Aspasia’s backside was dripping. Kassandra was glistening from her navel to her knees. Everything was slippery with olive oil and there was almost no friction at all. 

Soon Aspasia could not even lift her hips anymore, the pleasure running rampant through her veins sapping all of her failing strength. She collapsed forward into her pillows, arms limp. On her knees like a debased, lusty _pornai_ , she arched her back and buried her face into the bed. The large hands clenched tightly at her sides held her firmly in place, the brutal pace of Kassandra’s commanding hips never slowing, not even for a moment.

Suddenly Aspasia's body was seized in a white, wracking fire. She gave a strangled cry, shuddered and shook and sobbed, and then went blissfully limp. Distantly, she felt the _olisbos_ slip free, her _mouní_ sore and flushed and pounding in time with her racing pulse. Her vision swam and she drifted for a time, senseless. 

When she stirred, she was belly-down on the bed, and Kassandra was stretched out beside her on her back, one knee cocked and a muscular arm folded behind her head. The sight of her—her great, relaxed strength, moon-pale skin limned with shining sweat, scarred upper lip quirked smugly and tawny eyes glinting in satisfaction—made her chest go tight with some unspoken emotion, not for the first time that evening.

“You’re not done yet, are you?” her _misthios_ cooed teasingly, and despite herself, Aspasia felt a sluggish surge of arousal, even now, and was astounded with her own greed for more. The _misthios_ was indeed a most terrible influence on her self-discipline.

Grinning brazenly at her now, Kassandra held herself by the _olisbos_ , her thumb tracing suggestively up and down the still-glistening length. Aspasia sat up with a whimper. Her limbs felt heavy and her head light. It was difficult to focus, to move. With some coaxing and not a little of her _misthios_ ’s help, she straddled the larger woman tiredly.

Mounted atop narrow hips, Aspasia lifted herself so the _olisbos_ could once again slip inside her. It was a familiar feeling now, her _mouní_ squeezing down on the length as she lowered herself to sit in the _misthios_ ’s warm, slippery lap. Eyes squeezed shut in concentration, she circled her hips slowly, so the solid _olisbos_ rubbed wonderfully against her tightening walls, and moaned breathlessly at the feel.

Beneath her, Kassandra grunted and thrust lightly upwards, her hands on Aspasia’s hips, guiding her along. Somehow, this position was far worse than either of the ones before, Aspasia realized dimly. Sitting up like she was, her every expression and subtle movement was bared to her _misthios_ ’s watchful eyes—the naked lust painted on her own face, her slack mouth and half-shut eyelids, the rapid bounce of her breasts, dotted with sweat, the pale expanse of her undulating stomach, the slick _olisbos_ piercing her wet _mouní_ , glistening with arousal _—_ and struggled against a sudden sense of being terribly exposed.

She might have stopped them, then, too self-conscious to continue so brazenly, but then Kassandra growled and whispered roughly, “ _Mal_ _á_ _ka_ , you’re so beautiful,” in a voice thick with want. Aspasia gasped and met her eyes, the tawny depths glinting feral in the moonlight, and flushed hotly with boldness and excitement. Perhaps she and her _misthios_ did not particularly like each other outside of the bedroom—but here and now, without any doubt, Kassandra desired her greatly. Never again would Aspasia question that.

Legs shaking, Aspasia fell forward, physically exhausted but also seeking to hide her treacherous expression, holding herself up with elbows propped on her _misthios_ ’s chest. Thrusting harder from beneath, Kassandra groaned and buried her face under Aspasia’s jaw, licking at the delicate line of her sweaty collarbone, the damp hollow of her throat, the tender underside of her chin, breathing warmly onto her neck with huffing pants.

As the thrusts came harder and the grip on her hips grew more crushing, Aspasia felt her _mouní_ clench, her climax rising from her toes and the tips of her fingers to spiral tightly around her spine, and did something she had never done before, choking out a shaking, desperate, “ _Kassandra—_ ”

It was the first time she had ever used her _misthios_ ’s name, in bed or otherwise. Aspasia might not have even noticed her slip, so taken by their vigorous fucking, but then, suddenly, Kassandra gave a strangled cry and trembled so hard the bed itself shook. A moment later, she froze so abruptly it startled Aspasia, who stopped at once and jerked her head up in surprise.

For a moment neither of them moved, gone utterly still but for their rasping breaths and heaving chests. Aspasia thought to ask what was wrong, if perhaps an injury from training was bothering the other woman _—_ and then realized with an odd feeling pooling in her chest that Kassandra had not stopped because she was in pain, but because she had climaxed. 

From the beginning, their arrangement had been skewed rather unfairly _—_ as the benefactor of their agreement, Aspasia was the one with power, the one always to be serviced. Kassandra was not supposed to take pleasure but give it. And now she had come, because of Aspasia, calling her name—or perhaps she was flattering herself, and it had only happened because of the pressure of the _olisbos_ and harness, a purely physical side-effect, though by Kassandra's extreme reaction, Aspasia did not believe that to be true for long.

Beneath her, Kassandra was visibly stunned, eyes wide, looking strangely vulnerable. She seemed completely shocked, as if unused to her body reacting in a way she could not control. Her expression flickered through half a dozen emotions in quick turn, appearing upset, guilty, chagrined, and then wary in turn. 

Aspasia, for her part, had not the slightest idea of how to react, and simply sat there with her mouth partially open, perfectly aware of the thick _olisbos_ still deep inside her _mouní_ and the warm coil of heat wrapped tight around her spine, just beginning to loosen.

At last, Kassandra gave a hasty, “Apologies,” in the most quiet tone of voice Aspasia had ever heard from her. 

“It _—_ ” Aspasia tried, then shook her head in frustration. She could not think, could not take charge and give orders, not when her body was aching as it was and her head spinning so badly. They would talk of this later, not now. “Don’t stop.”

At her order, the hands on Aspasia’s hips tightened their grip, and at once her _misthios_ went back to work with renewed vigor. Though she said nothing more, Kassandra seemed angry with herself, and fucked Aspasia with a vengeance, her pace, passionate and quick, turning almost brutal, as if she were intent on making her mistress forget what had happened in whatever way she could. 

But even as the familiar scorching fire once again swept through her from crown to soles, Aspasia found she could not get the brief image of her _misthios_ surrendering to pleasure out of her mind.

—

They did not, of course, speak later of what had happened that night, nor did they address it the next day, or the next. Before Aspasia knew it, nearly a week had passed without mention of the incident, and still she found herself thinking on it with no small amount of intrigue, confusion and turmoil. While Kassandra continued to happily fuck her on command, her behavior seemed somehow more reserved than before, more imperious, almost… cold. 

Aspasia was not sure if she liked it or not, this newly dutiful, though emotionless warrior, and then became angry with herself for feeling such a way about a _misthios_ who had always seemed to be doing her best to drive her insane. How many times did she have to tell herself that she and Kassandra did not have to like each other for their arrangement to work before she actually believed it to be true?

It helped that she had far more important things to focus on lately. Lengthy meetings and symposiums, passionate debates, carefully-worded speeches, Kleon being more contrary than ever to each edict she tried to press forward, as well as the ever-hovering threat of the Cult of Kosmos’ inevitable return—not to mention her latest headache; that she was now fairly certain her villa servants knew she was fucking the _misthios_ , and were laughing at her behind her back with glee.

Earlier that day, after instructing Kassandra to fetch some necessary items from her study for Kleon, who would be arriving to the villa later, she had caught Adani grinning tellingly nearby. She had waited for the _misthios_ to depart, then stiffly asked her maid, “What might be so funny, Adani?”

“Nothing, my lady,” Adani had replied, as innocently as could be. When Kassandra returned a few minutes later with the requested items in hand, the knowing smile on Adani’s face returned as well, tenfold. Aspasia had to scowl at the girl several times until she stopped.

Then, that afternoon, Kleon arrived late. Aspasia attended him with obvious irritation, handing over the things he had asked for swiftly—documents and scrolls from previous meetings and discussions, of no further importance to her.

“Ah, Aspasia,” Kleon said suddenly, never neglecting to take an opportunity to further his own career by attempting to uplift her ego, “you are looking especially lovely these days. Tell me, what is your secret?”

Behind them, Adani snickered, and Aspasia’s temper flared. She narrowed her eyes and snapped, “Olive oil,” just to see what would happen, and sure enough, Adani burst into sharp, hysterical laughter. Aspasia whirled, shooting her a furious look, and her maid swallowed the laugh and went bright red. Standing beside her, Kassandra seemed blissfully oblivious, a bored look pasted on her face, though Aspasia would not have put it past the _misthios_ to throw in a rude, ill-timed joke just then.

Kleon, visibly confused, simply took the scrolls, thanked her, darted several suspicious glances at Kassandra, and left.

It would not be so terrible, Aspasia thought, if it were only Adani who was aware of her latest, relatively ill-advised dalliance. Unfortunately, an hour or so later, she noticed several other servants tittering suggestively in the background as Kassandra escorted her to the gardens, where they did _not_ fuck, though only because Aspasia was too busy grinding her teeth with annoyance to even attempt such a thing. 

So, then, their relationship—if it could even be called such a thing—was now free knowledge amongst the maids and servants, and most likely amongst the villa guards as well, judging by the good-natured ribbing Kassandra received during her usual round of morning training in the yard, some of the men offering loud advice on wooing a paramour while others gave tips on how to properly pleasure a woman. Kassandra laughed at that and replied, “I believe I do not need help in that regard, my friends.” Listening from a nearby balcony, Aspasia felt her ears turn red and fumed for several hours.

Even young Phoibe seemed to have noticed something within the villa had changed, but, unlike the others, lacked the aptitude necessary to keep quiet about it. 

“You’re different lately, Aspasia,” she said frankly as she practiced her archery out by the stables with Aspasia as her sole audience. “You don’t get so angry anymore, you know?”

Aspasia blinked. While she was impressed with the girl’s developing archery skills, the majority of her arrows hitting close to the center of her targets, that comment gave her a bit of a start. 

“Oh?” she said, raising an eyebrow that would make grown men cower at the Pnyx but only made Phoibe shrug. The girl raised and shot another arrow, the thrum of the bow and the thwack of impact echoing across the yard.

“Yes. You haven’t yelled at someone in more than a week now.”

Not sure what to say about Phoibe keeping track of such things, Aspasia simply made a noise of assent, and watched as Phoibe lined up her next shot. It had not occurred to her until now that although she often felt her temper beginning to fray—especially today, what with all the giggling going on behind her back—she had not outwardly reacted as she usually might beyond sharp glares and a tightly drawn mouth.

Nearby, Phobos gave a friendly whicker. Out of the corner of her eye, Aspasia noted her _misthios_ brushing her horse to a healthy shine. Luckily, the woman was too far away to hear this conversation, as it would be quite embarrassing to—

“Is it because of Kassandra?” Phoibe asked suddenly.

Aspasia flinched, and pretended it was because Phoibe’s bow fired at that instant. “What do you mean?” she ventured with care, quickly turning away from watching the other woman. Surely Phoibe could not possibly be insinuating that the horrible _misthios_ made her happy.

Phoibe shrugged and fetched another arrow. “Does she make you feel better, being here on the villa? I know you said she’s only a servant, but I don’t think that’s true. I think she’s here to protect us, but in secret, you know? Don’t worry,” she added quickly, when she saw Aspasia’s expression of rising alarm, “I won’t tell anyone. It’s just _—_ she makes _me_ feel better. I don’t feel so scared at night, knowing she’s here.”

Aspasia was quiet, darting a glance at the _misthios_ , who was still absorbed with her horse. “I…” she began, then hesitated.

Phoibe loosed her last arrow and turned to face her, looking very small and filled with such doubts, seeming at once far older and yet younger than her years. Such a bright, clever girl she was, Aspasia thought, and put her hand on her head and pulled her close in a rare moment of open affection. 

“Everything will be alright, Phoibe,” she breathed into her hair, pouring all the confidence she could muster into her voice. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore, I promise.”

Phoibe held her tightly around the waist and nodded. Aspasia could only hope the girl believed her. When she lifted her head, Kassandra was watching them closely. Their eyes met, and something seemed to harden within the _misthios_ , like tempered metal—her resolve, perhaps, to protect not only Aspasia but all those dear to her as well, and upon seeing it, Aspasia found she was far more grateful than she imagined she ever could be.

—

Several days later, Aspasia busied herself with swapping the location of her bedroom to the slightly bigger, currently empty chamber across the hallway, seeking the cooler side of the house in the growing summer heat of sun-baked Attika. Adani, who normally had to share her own room with another servant, was gifted Aspasia’s old one, which the maid was more than delighted to accept. The swapping of belongings and furniture did not take terribly long, their afternoon busy with Aspasia giving orders, Adani making suggestions, and Kassandra amiably lifting and moving whatever was needed as Phoibe carried the smaller things back and forth excitedly, making a game of it. 

That night, Aspasia slipped Kassandra into her new bedroom in silence. It was late, and she did not want to wake anyone, especially Adani, who continued to titter and smile anytime she saw Aspasia standing remotely close to the _misthios_. It was beyond infuriating, but Aspasia had so far done nothing to curb the behavior, even going so far as to find herself simply accepting it at times. Perhaps Phoibe was right—perhaps she _had_ changed. 

Stepping into her new chambers, Kassandra, who had been markedly reserved lately, seemed eager to put her hands on her, pawing greedily at her silks, impatient to bare the body underneath—Aspasia had been busy the day before, and they had not gotten a chance to be alone with each other, especially now that everyone was watching them so closely. 

The return of her _misthios_ ’s lecherous behavior made Aspasia’s heart thump powerfully. They still had not talked about what had happened that one night, but at least Kassandra seemed to be getting over the awkwardness of the encounter and back to her usual self—her obnoxious, rude, usual self, which Aspasia could not stand, yet for some reason had missed dearly.

They collapsed on the bed, Kassandra pulling Aspasia to lay on top of her. For several long minutes, they kissed, muffling the sounds of their rising excitement as best they could behind nips and sucks and licking tongues, until Aspasia was aching and frustrated and grabbing at her own clothes with force. At last, Kassandra gave her an impishly fond grin and helped her undress, the silk sheets beneath them cool against her bare skin. 

Almost without realizing it, Aspasia reached for Kassandra’s belt. At once, Kassandra grabbed her hand in surprise, not forcefully but enough to stay her, and Aspasia froze, the impact of what she had done hitting like a sharp blow.

She wrenched her hand back in embarrassment and blurted, “Apologies. I—I’m not—” She stopped, struggling for words. She did not want Kassandra to feel as though she _had_ to undress, simply because Aspasia desired it. “It’s not an order,” she said quietly. 

“No?” said Kassandra, her tone unreadable.

“No,” Aspasia insisted. “It is a... request.”

Kassandra was silent, though the tension in her shoulders seemed to release at the word, _request_. 

Even more mortifying words continued to tumble from Aspasia’s mouth. “I wish to see you. Please.”

“You would enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” Kassandra said lowly, repeating Aspasia’s hissed words from that fateful night, but with none of the harshness Aspasia had used. Rather, the _misthios_ sounded warm and teasing, and her eyes were bright and smokey with desire. Aspasia squirmed helplessly on the bed.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Slowly, Kassandra sat up. Her eyes did not leave Aspasia’s as she removed her belt and _chiton_ , leaving her gloriously naked on the bed with her. Aspasia swallowed thickly at the sight of her muscled body, the subtle curve of her breasts and the patch of darkly golden hair between her thighs.

Before she could make any more foolish ‘requests,’ Kassandra reclined against the pillows and picked Aspasia up with the greatest of ease—as she always did, her strength making Aspasia weak and dizzy—placing her on her lap and kissing her wetly as she ran her broad palm down Aspasia’s heaving chest and stomach to rest on her already damp _mouní_. At the feel of her calloused fingers so close to where she wanted them, Aspasia’s breath stuttered in her throat as she rutted against the hand desperately, earning a dark chuckle from Kassandra. Her _misthios_ cupped her more firmly, almost roughly, and then spread her _mouní_ apart with thumb and little finger before easing her other three deeply inside with a slick wet noise.

Tonight would be quick, Aspasia recognized—within minutes, she was gasping and flushed, white heat building at the back of her skull and in the pit of her stomach. Her toes were beginning to curl, fingers clenching tight on Kassandra’s bare shoulders. She threw her head back, squeezed her eyes shut, and began to ride the _misthios_ ’s fingers with abandon, concentrating on the intoxicating feel of her hard, naked body flexing and bowing beneath her own.

She was nearly there, skirting along the bare edge of her pleasure, when Kassandra went utterly still and silent beneath her. Feeling the shoulders under her hands go hard as rock, Aspasia opened her eyes dazedly and peered down. Kassandra was not even looking at her, but staring at the bedroom door with an expression of extreme alertness.

“What _—_?” she began, and then the look on Kassandra’s face shifted from alertness to alarm. 

Aspasia yelped as she was suddenly lifted and pushed hastily off the _misthios_ , who leapt to her feet and went crashing naked from the room just as a shrill scream pierced the air. She sat stunned on the bed for a long moment, fear freezing her pleasure-numbed limbs in place, then roused and flung on her _chiton_ , stumbling after Kassandra into the hallway _—_

—and shrieked loudly when, only a second later, a body in black robes thudded to the floor at her feet, head bent the wrong way around. A cracked mask spun on the floor nearby, white marked with red. A member of the Cult of Kosmos! Here? Now?

The screaming continued, and Aspasia’s heart went cold. Adani. Adani was in Aspasia’s old bedroom. Gods! Had the Cult members thought she was Aspasia, and tried to harm her? Or worse _—_ had they succeeded?

She heard Kassandra cursing and the sounds of a fierce struggle coming from the other bedroom but dared not enter, for fear of disturbing Kassandra's focus. Pottery crashed. Wood shattered. Then another body flew out of the doorway—a second assassin, freshly dead, bleeding heavily from a slashed throat. Aspasia shouted in horror. 

Kassandra came charging out after him, her face a mask of fury, a spatter of bright red blood streaked across her bare chest and arms. She had her broken spear in hand, pulled from Zeus knew where.

“Stay here!” she snarled at Aspasia, and then disappeared, leaping naked out the nearest window like a madwoman. Aspasia, clutching at her own throat in horror at the bodies now strewn about her hallway, stood with her back against the wall, trapped by her own momentary panic, then forced herself into her old bedroom, where a third body lay prone on the floor in a puddle of expanding black blood. Not her servant, but another assassin, stabbed through the chest and already going cold.

Adani was curled up on the ripped and tattered bed, knees to her chest and arms wrapped around her head, still screaming. A hooked knife had been stabbed into the material less than a handspan away. She appeared unharmed, though her _chiton_ was cut and her hair was in disarray. Aspasia knelt on the bed, took her by the shoulders and gave her a shake.

“Adani!” she cried, and then repeated louder, “ _Adani!_ ”

At last, Adani’s shrieks lessened. She blinked watery eyes up at Aspasia, as if awakening from a horrible nightmare. “M-m-my lady?” she stammered out.

“Are you unharmed?” Aspasia demanded.

“I-I… I think so,” Adani said, and then began to weep in earnest. “They _—_ I woke just as they seized me. They were going to cut my throat, and so I screamed, and _—_ ” She dissolved into tears, and Aspasia, struck by an overpowering sense of sympathy, held her closely, relieved beyond belief that her maid had not mistakenly been killed in her place.

Suddenly, there was a clatter and Phoibe raced into the room, a small dagger in her hand, face fierce as a wildcat. “Aspasia! I will protect you until Kassandra comes back!” she cried. Even when two armed Athenian guards followed her inside, huing cries of alarm, Aspasia did not have the heart to dismiss the girl, allowing her to keep watch with the men until the danger had fully passed.

Kassandra returned to the villa shortly, looking in turn grim and furious. Probably, she would have liked to follow the assassins further into the city to discover their hidden stronghold, but hadn’t dared leave Aspasia alone for too long. She had found herself a roughly woven _chiton_ , probably snatched from someone’s clothesline, and had put it on to cover her nakedness, though her body was still streaked with blood, her bare feet filthy from her run through the streets.

The guards were only just finishing pouring throughout the villa and sweeping the surrounding grounds and garden, searching for any other assassins as the bodies of the three killed in Adani’s bedroom were stripped and swiftly removed from the house. In the morning, Aspasia would try to identify them, though she doubted any would be familiar to her. When things had at last begun to calm, the guards returning to their post with renewed vigilance _—_ strictly ordered not to speak to anyone of this night _—_ and Phoibe thanked and sent reluctantly to bed, Aspasia gave Adani over to the others, ordered a bowl of warm water and clean cloth to be brought to her, and went to find Kassandra.

The _misthios_ was in her small room, sitting by the window and sulking—or at least appeared to be, a foul look in her eyes and her mouth held in a tight, flat line. Her eagle was on the sill and chirped when Aspasia entered, though Kassandra did not look up, even when Aspasia came to sit beside her. The breeze from outside was cool and smelled of the city, the moon blazing brightly in the clear starred sky.

“Give me your arm,” Aspasia commanded.

Intent in the act of wiping her spear blade clean with a spare cloth, Kassandra took her time making sure the weapon was spotless before reluctantly extending her right arm. When she had returned to the villa, Aspasia had caught a brief glimpse of a gash that ran up her forearm almost all the way to her elbow. Seeing it closer now, she noted it was long but thankfully shallow, and pulled the limb into her lap.

“Hold still,” she said, and went to work wiping the wound clean with the cloth and bowl of water she had brought. Once she was satisfied, she treated the gash with a healing ointment and then wrapped it tightly with a fresh bandage. 

All the while, Kassandra did not flinch once. Neither of them spoke, simultaneously unhappy with themselves—Kassandra, bitter with her own supposed failure in catching all of the Cult assassins, and Aspasia, dismayed that it was her own fault Kassandra had been hurt, and Adani attacked and terrorized. 

Finished with the bandage, Aspasia gave Kassandra’s arm a gentle, final touch, and the _misthios_ lifted her limb and turned it about, as if to inspect her treatment. Seeming satisfied, she nodded.

Aspasia stood briskly, though she did not leave right away. She could tell her _misthios_ wanted to be alone, but something kept her there, like an unseen hand clamped around her wrist.

“Thank you, Kassandra,” she said suddenly, and found she meant it entirely, with all of her heart. For the second time now, her _misthios_ had put her life at peril risk to protect her, and had even given chase to the assassins in an attempt to pull the poisonous plant ailing them from its roots. Though they had not managed so grand a feat yet, branches had still been cut, and soon the tree would begin to wither and die. Aspasia was sure of it.

At her praise, Kassandra merely grunted, though the sound of her name did seem to stir her from her angry torpor. Her eyes, stubbornly fixed on the dark lurking outside the window, now flicked from Aspasia’s hands to the bandage on her arm, then back.

“Sleep,” Aspasia ordered gently. “The guards will remain on alert for the rest of the night. We are safe for now.”

Now Kassandra huffed out a laugh, and favored Aspasia with that crooked, cocky smile of hers. “Never trust an Athenian to do a Spartan’s job,” she joked, and at once, the moody, sullen air about her was dispelled, and Aspasia's loud, brazen _misthios_ had returned to her.

With a stiff smile, Aspasia left the room, though she did not follow her own advice and rest, for her heart was troubled. They had nearly gotten themselves killed just now with their foolishness, her and her _misthios_ , caught in mid-embrace while Cult assassins crept in through the windows and fell upon poor Adani. It was only through sheer luck combined with Kassandra’s adept warrior skill that had saved them from certain disaster. Aspasia was not confident such a tragedy could be so avoided a second time, and now they had to face the consequences.

Aspasia's next decision was swift, practical, and utterly necessary—in order to deter any further catastrophes, their intimate arrangement would have to stop, immediately. By doing so, she hoped to remove the temptation and ultimate distraction Kassandra afforded her, and do without her _misthios_ ’s touch until the danger had passed, for good. There was no other choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> google docs: file originally created march 3, 2019  
> me: FiLe OrIgInAlLy CrEaTeD mArCh ThReE, tWeNtY-nInEtEeN


	5. A Misthios's Work

Three weeks.

That was how long it had been since Aspasia’s _misthios_ last touched her. 

Kassandra, the first few days after the nighttime attack on the villa, seemed naturally rather puzzled as to why her mistress no longer pulled her into empty rooms or found quiet corners of the garden or grounds for them to kiss and rut and moan. She waited nearby as she always did with hands clasped and feet apart, watching her mistress expectantly, ready at a moment's notice for her orders to be given, but Aspasia forced herself to ignore her, treating the other woman as she would any other servant under her roof. She refused to explain herself, either, choosing instead to either ignore Kassandra's questioning looks or outright dismiss her from her presence the very moment she began to feel anything close to the temptation of rising arousal or physical longing.

Soon enough, the clever _misthios_ caught on. She made no protest to the sudden change in behavior, following Aspasia along to symposiums or political meetings with her usual subdued diligence, making no attempts to seduce her back into her arms, though Aspasia did notice at times the other woman watching her from a distance with a faintly dejected air. Still, it never went beyond that, the _misthios_ seeming to respect her decision, and despite herself, Aspasia was thankful—if the other woman ever stopped and questioned her outright for her sudden, neglectful attitude, she was unsure of how she might possibly respond.

 _I cannot fuck you anymore,_ misthios, she might say, _because I enjoy it far too much, and that distracts me from the murder of my husband and the actual looming threat of being similarly assassinated by a mysterious, bloodthirsty cult._

Pah!

At first, Aspasia was entirely resolved in her newfound abstinence. Their lives depended on it, after all. She was not an animal, driven by base needs, but an intelligent, practical woman. The best way to treat a weakened limb was to remove it entirely, and so she would return to treating her _misthios_ as she had in the very beginning—with cool, unaffected, strictly-held professionalism and a barely restrained temper.

It seemed a simple enough task, yet for some reason, Aspasia found herself struggling after only a few days. A full week was practically torture. She felt a starved, greedy little thing, her body grown used to being selfishly indulged, fucked often and well every day for weeks. As if in retaliation, it now rebelled against her at odd times, growing wet and excited at the mere sound of the _misthios_ ’s husky voice, or by the scent of her sun-warmed skin when she lingered nearby. 

Still, Aspasia was nothing if not determined. She would not give in so easily.

Time passed, and rather than find it easier to follow her decision, Aspasia felt a broken woman. As foolish as it was to imagine, each day was a dragging lifetime, each night a long, tortuous wait for dawn. Now that she was no longer distracted by the delights of her _misthios_ ’s muscled arms, rough hands and dexterous fingers, her sweet, roughly kissing mouth and hard, powerful body, her mind was now fully focused on the all-consuming threat of her own death. 

It seemed inevitable now, a dark, creeping, unavoidable fate. She jumped at shadows and loud noises. Anxiety churned like poison in her guts, day and night, and soon her appetite began to wane. Even when she did attempt to eat, she could stomach little, the sweetest of figs turning to dirt in her mouth and the finest wine tasting sour and rotten. 

Soon she had no focus with which to attend debates or discussions at the Pnyx. She went once to the _agora_ and nearly made a fool of herself when she could not remember her stance on a particular topic. Kleon seemed to leap upon her confusion with glee, earning himself several wavering politicians to side with his views. Discouraged, Aspasia left and resolved not to return until her mind had cleared. Eventually even symposiums were avoided out of sheer paranoia, the villa becoming almost like a prison, one she simply could not hope to leave for fear of certain death.

By the third week, she began to lose weight, and slept even less than she ate. Every night, her bed seemed bigger and her room more empty. She kept torches lit throughout the dark hours and paced her floor relentlessly, refusing to allow anyone entry to her chambers, even her _misthios_ , for fear of breaking her vow and putting not only herself but everyone within the villa once again at risk. She had already failed once—she would not make the same mistake a second time.

Gradually, her mood soured and grew dark and morbid, suffocating her usual flashing temper into a sullen malaise. Her servants noticed and tried to do things to cheer her—simple things, like adding fresh flowers around the villa and in her rooms and finding rare sweets and pastries at the market for her to sample. Aspasia was grateful but ultimately resolute in her decision. 

Despite her villa being surrounded with guards and servants alike, Aspasia found, after the three weeks had passed, that she had never felt so secluded. She was lonely, she realized, and felt more pathetic than ever, throwing herself into her duties with all the energy she could muster. Sometimes she worked until dark, rising early before anyone else was awake to begin the next day, restless and uneasy.

After a long, particularly exhausting day of reading and re-reading a backlog of important scrolls and reports, Aspasia collapsed onto her bed but could not rest. It was late, and she had skipped lunch as well as her evening meal to instead focus on the drafting of several new laws. Her head pounded and her eyes ached. Her shoulders were stiff with tension and her neck stung sharply with every move. She felt on the verge of breaking but helpless to do anything to change it. 

She was contemplating rising to attend the unfinished scrolls on her table when the door to her bedroom opened and Kassandra stepped in. In her hand was a platter of wine, freshly steaming barley bread, and a small bowl of juicy olives.

Aspasia sat up, surprised. She had not been alone with her _misthios_ in weeks and the sight of her now made her heart stutter. “I told you to stay outside,” she said sharply.

Kassandra did not reply, simply closed the door and approached the bed, placing the platter by Aspasia’s knee. The smell of the warm bread and pungent olives made her stomach growl fiercely, and a wave of lightheadedness made her sway for a moment where she sat. When she looked up again, Kassandra was standing above her with arms crossed, as though she were waiting for something. 

“What is this?” Aspasia asked, though it was quite obvious.

“Food,” Kassandra replied. “Eat.”

Aspasia scowled down at the platter, then at her _misthios_ , still looming expectantly over her. “I am not hungry,” she lied. Her stomach chose that moment to make a loud protest, and she colored, glaring. Trying to bargain, she hedged, “If I eat, will you do as you’re told and go away?”

“No,” Kassandra said shortly.

“You are a poor _misthios_ if you cannot even obey your mistress,” Aspasia snapped.

“I would obey my mistress if she gave me proper instructions,” Kassandra replied, without malice. “But all she does is send me away when she needs me most.”

“How dare—!”

Ignoring her, Kassandra sat heavily on the bed with a short groan of wood. With calm deliberation, she toed off her sandals and then undid her belt, producing her broken spear as if from midair and tucking it under one of Aspasia’s pillows before stretching out luxuriantly, lazing back as though it were her own bed and not her sputtering mistress’s, one muscular arm folded casually behind her head. Her eyes never left Aspasia’s face. 

“Eat,” she commanded again, nudging the platter closer to Aspasia with one long, callused finger. Aspasia snatched her eyes away from that finger and any fond memories she may have had for it, and hesitated only a few moments longer before resentfully pulling the tray to her side and picking up an olive. The burst of flavor on her tongue hit powerfully, and she chewed slowly with growing relish before picking up and eating another.

The more she ate, the hungrier she became, realizing just how famished she actually was. She finished the platter without any further prompting, and felt better for it, the shakiness gone from her limbs, though she resisted thanking her _misthios_ , choosing instead to dust her hands of crumbs before placing the platter on the floor for the morning.

“Are you pleased?” she asked Kassandra acidly. Her _misthios_ did not even blink. Her broad hand lifted and then pressed to the empty space on the bed beside her.

“Sleep,” she commanded, in a tone that brooked no protest.

Though she was the _misthios_ , and Aspasia the mistress, Aspasia still felt herself yearning to obey. She had gotten almost no rest last night, and her head was hurting so badly. The food sat heavy in her stomach, weighing her down, the fatigue of the last few weeks crowding closely in. 

Eyeing the scroll-laden table across the room one final time, she found herself nodding faintly and giving a quiet murmur of assent. Fingers clumsy from exhaustion fumbled at the fastenings of her clothing, and without a word, Kassandra reached over and helped her out of her silken _himation_ with all the courteous, platonic intent of Adani, respectfully helping her mistress undress before a bath.

Reclining onto her pillows with a long, quavering sigh, Aspasia closed her eyes and simply focused on her breathing. Her rampant fears were still there, yes, running amok in the back of her mind, but quieter now, soothed by the good, simple food in her stomach and the warm, solid presence of her _misthios_ in her bed. 

Turning her head, she found Kassandra watching her carefully. Their eyes met but they did not speak. Aspasia was too bitter, too proud to admit her _misthios_ was right—that she had not been eating or sleeping properly, and that she had been sending her away or avoiding her at every given chance. Kassandra, however, did not look upset or resentful over the matter. Surprisingly, her face, turned toward Aspasia, was uncharacteristically soft and thoughtful, and after only a few moments, Aspasia found she had to look away, her heart beginning to pound strangely with something far different and much more intimidating than arousal.

Sighing again, she laid her head back and closed her eyes. Much as she would like to deny it, she felt calm, peaceful, and utterly safe, listening to the rhythmic sound of Kassandra’s quiet, measured breaths beside her, and smelling the warm, subtle scent of her body. As the sleep that had eluded her for days began to creep into the edges of her becalmed mind, Aspasia instinctively shifted herself closer to the other woman, like a flower turning toward the brilliant sun, curling her body against Kassandra’s broad side before falling blessedly and deeply asleep.

—

When she woke an untold amount of time later, the sky outside her windows was still dark but scattered through with glowing stars, the sinking moon shining bright bars of white across the bed and floor of her room. The faint hum of the great city of Athens could be heard beneath the silence of deep night and the coming morning, a slow, thrumming pulse like that of a sleeping giant.

Kassandra was still in the bed beside her, Aspasia’s head resting on her powerful shoulder, their bodies turned toward one another. The _misthios_ was awake and watching her. They were only inches apart, so close Aspasia could see every tiny detail on Kassandra’s face—her thick, finely arched brows, her dark, glinting eyes, the small pale scar on her upper lip. 

Aspasia made as if to speak, but the sudden sight of Kassandra’s expression stilled her tongue and filled her throat with thick emotion—like before, her face was soft and gentle and open, but now also heavily weighed with a deep, profoundly wrenching sorrow that seemed entirely unlike her lackadaisical nature. Looking at her now, Aspasia almost could not recognize her for it.

Meeting her gaze, Aspasia felt at once heartbroken and stricken with grief. It was difficult not to simply fall apart and weep with sorrow at the sight of such deep-seated pain. She wanted to lay her head on Kassandra’s chest, put her arms around her and hold her, or beat her fists on the bed with frustration and demand she reveal who had caused her so much suffering, so Aspasia could punish them. But in the end she did nothing.

Instead, she waited. They lay there in the silence, the _misthios_ and her mistress, watching one another carefully. Then, in a soft, low voice, Kassandra began to speak.

“I was born in Sparta,” she said in little more than a breathy whisper. 

At once, Aspasia came completely awake, all of her focus snapping to the woman next to her, giving her the utmost attention she could possibly manage at the moment.

“I had a loving _mater_ and a strong _pater_. When they had my little brother, I was overjoyed. Never have I known such happiness as then. But…” Kassandra paused, and Aspasia felt her chest tighten painfully.

“But...?” she whispered.

“But then the Cult came.” Kassandra swallowed audibly before continuing as Aspasia’s heart began to thump with fear. “One night, men arrived to our house. They wore black robes and white masks with red markings. My father, the son of the great Spartan warrior Leonidas, was a greatly respected figure in Lakonia. They asked him to join their cause, knowing how many others he might sway, trying to poison his mind with promises of a better world. But my father, he knew the truth, that they wanted only to further their own wicked goals. He refused.”

Aspasia was silent. As someone who had personally witnessed how the Cult operated, she already knew what must have happened next.

“They killed him for it,” Kassandra said quietly, her tone level, though Aspasia could detect the old anger hidden beneath the words, the tempered steel of a long-festering grudge. “My mother was forced to flee from Lakonia with my brother and I. The Cult refused to let us go, hunting us down like dogs. We survived for a time, eating scraps and sleeping in caves, but somehow, they found us again.” 

She paused a second time, and Aspasia reached out and placed her hand over Kassandra’s, laying limply on the _misthios_ 's chest. At first, Kassandra did not react—then, her fingers curled around Aspasia’s and clung on tightly. “My mother died protecting us,” she said, and Aspasia’s heart broke. With visible effort, Kassandra went on, “In Sparta, the weak are killed so the strong can remain, but this—this was nothing like that. They cast my brother and I from a mountain, in sacrifice to their new order.”

Aspasia’s hand clenched hard. She felt one of Kassandra’s knuckles pop softly under her palm. 

“I survived,” Kassandra said gravely, “but my brother did not. I went into hiding. Somehow, I found my way to the islands of Kephallonia, where I became a _misthios_ , and when I was old enough, I took a ship to Athens. I have been searching for those men ever since, yearning for a chance to avenge the family I lost and loved so dearly.” 

A tear broke free from Aspasia’s suddenly burning eyes and rolled down her cheek. Kassandra blinked, as though surprised by her empathy, and cupped her damp cheek in her broad palm, soothing away another tear glinting from the corner of her eye. It was the most tender thing she had ever done for Aspasia, and it nearly broke her completely.

Kassandra’s voice grew lower and more urgent than before, deep and husky with sadness and vengeful longing. “And now, you have given me my chance for peace, a way to kill these foul men and so lay my burdens to rest, and for that, I will be forever grateful. I swear to you, Aspasia, soon there will come a day where you no longer have to look over your shoulder in worry of another attack. You have been so very brave. Please, be brave for only a short time longer, and—”

Aspasia burst into tears, then, and buried her face in the _misthios_ 's chest, sobbing wildly with abandon, emotions she had kept closely constrained within her for so long finally breaking free.

“I am _not_ brave!” she cried aloud. “I am a _coward!_ ” 

Kassandra was quiet, baffled, perhaps, into silence. After a moment, a heavy arm slid around Aspasia’s shuddering back and held her closely as she sobbed.

“Every day,” Aspasia gasped through hiccupping tears, “I dread the return of those horrid Cultists. I am sick with it, terrified every waking moment. I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I am not like you, _misthios_. I have no teeth to bite with, no fangs for killing, no hunger for vengeance. All I can do is hide here in my villa, waiting for their return, knowing I cannot escape. I am selfish and afraid and weak. Death is a frightful stranger to me. I—I was not even there when my husband died!”

Aspasia dissolved back into sobs. Kassandra, thankfully, did not leap to judge or question, and simply waited for Aspasia to go on. Choking back her grief, Aspasia took a shaky breath and said:

“That day, that horrible day… I knew something was wrong, somehow. I could feel it. Perikles left the villa early. Hours went by without his return, and I began to worry. There had been unrest over new laws and taxes—I thought perhaps he had gotten caught up in some argument or debate with politicians. I sent Phoibe to search for him at his favorite place to pray, the Parthenon.” Sorrow wracked her chest, and she struggled before continuing. “Phoibe found him. She said—she said he was on the floor, before the statue of Athena. He was surrounded by masked men, pleading for his life. They slit his throat like he was chattel and left him there.” 

Kassandra made a sound of muted outrage. Taking strength from it, and the grip of her _misthios_ ’s hands on her back, Aspasia went on.

“Phoibe hid so the men would not see her. Once they were gone, she came running back to the villa, terrified from what she had seen. I sent soldiers, but it was no use—Perikles was dead, and the masked men could not be found. Phoibe… She would not speak for days afterwards.”

“Oh, Phoibe,” Kassandra breathed, as if finally understanding why the girl clung to her so tightly, begging to learn how to fight. She wanted to be able to defend herself, and protect Aspasia and retaliate the next time the men came.

Aspasia sniffled. “So, you see? A part of me _knew_ Perikles was at the Parthenon, but I was too much of a coward to go myself. Instead, I sent a child, and scarred her forever with a murder she could not prevent. Now I spend my days filled with terror, fearing—and _knowing_ —that I will be next.” 

Burning with shame, she sobbed and sobbed—for the lost innocence of a young, warmhearted girl, for her poor dead husband, who died alone and afraid on the floor like a dog, and for herself, a cold, calculating _hetaerae_ who claimed she would do anything for her beloved city and the people within while expecting the same from them, but in the end, refused to die for it, like the hypocrite she was.

For many minutes, Kassandra held her, stroking her back comfortingly and coaxing out every ounce of her sorrow, anger, and fear. By the time her eyes had begun to dry, Aspasia felt as if she were a brittle, empty shell. If her _misthios_ were not careful, she would shatter and break into a thousand pieces in her grasp.

Kassandra wiped away the last of Aspasia’s tears with her thumb. “There is no shame in fearing death,” she said softly, tucking a stray curl of dark hair behind Aspasia’s ear. The gesture was thoughtlessly intimate, Aspasia’s heart thudding hard at the base of her throat at the gentle touch. “Everyone fears it, from the oldest Athenian to the mightiest Spartan.”

“You don’t,” Aspasia said. Not once had she seen her _misthios_ flinch in the face of certain death, not even when slaying four armed assassins in turn, or leaping from a window entirely naked into untold danger.

Kassandra’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You think I am not afraid, when I fight those who have come to kill you?” By her tone, Aspasia knew she was wrong, and looked away. Kassandra guided her chin back with a callused finger. “Of course I am afraid of death. Always. For myself, but also for you.”

Now, Aspasia scoffed—she had to, for otherwise she might begin to cry again. “Yes. Because then who will pay you your _drachmae_?”

Kassandra gave her a scolding look, and Aspasia bit her lip, chastened. She should not have lashed out like that, not now, not here, with this shaky understanding building tentatively between them.

“Apologies,” she muttered contritely with a faint sniffle. Her eyes felt dry and hot, her cheeks flushed and nose runny. She thought she might become embarrassed by her breakdown, but instead felt lighter, as though she had shed a heavy blanket during a particularly hot day.

“Are you done hiding from me now?” Kassandra said lightly, tracing a nonsensical pattern on Aspasia’s shoulder. “I have missed you, these past few weeks.”

Aspasia flushed. “Liar.”

Kassandra rolled her eyes and sighed. “Of all the _mal_ _á_ _kas_ women in the city,” she husked, as if to herself, “I _would_ have to find myself the one who can’t stand the sight of me. Tell me, do you really hate me so much?”

“You—I—you drive me mad,” Aspasia whispered. 

“Hmm.” Kassandra suddenly dipped down and kissed Aspasia’s forehead before she could stop her. She flushed again, even harder. Kassandra grinned at her brazenly before schooling her expression to one of utter sincerity and determination. “Hear me, Aspasia. I will not let these men harm you, no matter the cost. They have taken all those I have ever cared about—they will not take another. This, I swear to you.”

Aspasia was silent. The implication that the _misthios_ cared for her did not go unnoticed, but rather than snap at her to shut up, or order her from her rooms at once, she instead laid perfectly still on the bed, pulse pounding and her breath quickening, not quite able to believe her ears.

A soft laugh reached her, and she blinked and came back to herself. Only then did she notice Kassandra was again leaning forward, eyes low-lidded and dark with intent. She paused a hairsbreadth away, giving Aspasia a chance to stop her. 

_Three weeks_ , Aspasia thought with a shiver, and reached out, sliding her palm behind the _misthios_ ’s warm neck and pulling her forward.

They kissed, and for the first time it was not rough and hard and wanting. No, this kiss was careful and searching and unsure, and as soon as they pulled back for breath, lips parting with a soft smacking sound, Aspasia wanted it again, and again, and again, her body aching with arousal and her heart tight with emotion. 

Kassandra’s slick tongue played gently with hers, her broad hands cupping her ribcage as if she were holding a delicate, cooing dove. Aspasia gasped and squirmed against her. After several minutes, when Kassandra had not made a single motion to undress her, instead kissing her breathless until her mouth and lips were sore and her chest heaving, Aspasia jerked away with a desperate little moan and disrobed herself with quick, jerky movements, ignoring the sound of tearing cloth and tossing the ruined bundle onto the floor.

Watching her closely, Kassandra grinned appreciatively, then startled when Aspasia began to pull at her clothes as well with questing fingers. Though surprised, the _misthios_ did not resist in the least, helping Aspasia draw her thin white _chiton_ from her powerful body, leaving them naked on the bed, intertwined.

Aspasia shuddered at the feel of Kassandra’s bare body pressed so closely to her own, their breasts pushed together, nipples brushing, thighs rubbing. For perhaps the first time, she had a chance to truly relish the sensation—usually she was so wanton and impatient for a good fucking, focused only on immediate satisfaction, which Kassandra was always more than willing to provide—but at this moment, there was no need to rush. Kassandra appeared to agree, seeming perfectly content to kiss Aspasia into a heady stupor with a swirling tongue and warm, wet lips.

Soon enough, a new desire breached Aspasia’s lusty haze, and she broke away, ignoring Kassandra’s confused hum before she released a quiet gasp, as Aspasia touched her body with intent, laying her soft palm over her _misthios_ ’s breast, knowing the other woman could stop her at any moment if she wanted but hopeful she would not.

For a moment, they did not move. Aspasia did not want to beg, but the idea was growing on her. She had never touched her _misthios_ like this before—the idea was daunting, but she wanted it badly. Her heart leapt when, at last, Kassandra’s body relaxed slightly and she closed her eyes with fluttering lids, giving an almost imperceptible nod to continue. Aspasia found she was so happy she darted forward on instinct and kissed her until they were both rasping deliriously for air.

Slowly, she trailed her mouth from Kassandra’s sweet panting lips to the jut of her chin, kissing her way down her veined neck to the tops of her scarred shoulders. She had expected her utter lech of a _misthios_ to grin down at her boldly or give some sort of smart, teasing quip, but instead the mighty warrior made a soft squeaking sound and then trembled briefly, as if unused to receiving such amorous attentions.

The poor wolf, Aspasia thought. So often it had feasted on the flock, yet neglected to allow the chance for others to have a mouthful. She would fix that now—the bread and olives from earlier had merely served to whet her appetite for a very different sort of meal.

The breast under her palm was warm and slightly sweaty, one of the only soft parts of Kassandra’s tall, battle-hardened body. Aspasia took her time mapping it with her fingers, flicking Kassandra’s nipple with her thumb and pinching delicately until it appeared almost painfully erect. Not wanting to leave her other breast neglected, she nosed across the _misthios_ ’s sternum and licked at its soft, sloping underside, spiraling upwards to suck the hard pink nipple into her mouth with a pleased murmur.

Kassandra moaned then—not a laugh, or a huff, or a sigh, but a fully-throated, slightly quavering moan, which Aspasia was not certain she had ever heard from her before. The moment it reached her ears, she needed to hear it again. Her fingers went back to work in earnest, her mouth forming a hot, wet seal over her _misthios_ ’s breast as she swirled her tongue over her nipple in tight spirals. Kassandra moaned and moaned, thrashing about like she was in pain.

When she slid a slender hand between Kassandra’s muscular thighs, her _misthios_ made a choking sound, her powerful legs falling open at once. She was wet and hot and tight around Aspasia’s slim fingers, a steaming, slippery mess. Aspasia groaned and sunk two all the way to the third knuckle, her thumb finding the throbbing bud at the front of Kassandra’s _mouní_ and rubbing it—slowly at first, wary of hurting her, then harder when her _misthios_ rutted back against her with obvious pleasure, teeth bared like an animal.

Suddenly a shaking hand wound into Aspasia’s hair, gripping tightly at her nape, and she was roughly pulled from Kassandra’s breast, her lower lip trailing a glistening thread of spit to the flushed nipple. She moaned in subdued protest and was then kissed very thoroughly, hardly able to keep her focus on the hand working furiously between Kassandra’s spasming legs. Her _misthios_ was sopping wet—she fit another finger into her _mouní_ without any effort, and Kassandra cried out against her lips, hips jerking fiercely.

“ _Mal_ _á_ _ka_ ,” Kassandra hissed abruptly, and then every muscle in her body tensed, her head thrown back against the pillows, neck and spine arching like a drawn bow, shoulders and torso flexing powerfully and the rigid furrow of her abdomen gleaming with sweat. Aspasia moaned at the sight of such strength, barely restrained, then remembered the similar image of Kassandra in bliss that night with the _olisbos_ , and where before they had regarded it with awkwardness and shame, Aspasia now took great delight to witness such beauty.

For several long seconds, Kassandra lay there trembling, then suddenly went limp, gasping harshly for air. Her grip on Aspasia’s sides went slack, and Aspasia wiggled about until she lay casually atop her heaving chest, folding her wrist under her chin to prop her head up as she watched Kassandra slowly return to herself.

Her _misthios_ whimpered pitifully when she withdrew her sticky hand from between her quivering thighs, the mighty wolf at once transformed into a cowed puppy. Aspasia could not help a smirk. Was that all it took to control the ferocious warrior—a single hand? Perhaps she should have done this far earlier, to save herself so many headaches.

Catching her breath, Kassandra glanced down and gave her a weak smile, looking ready to make some witty comment but unable to recall even a single word. She looked uncharacteristically spent, but Aspasia was far from finished with her. Taking great care to ensure her _misthios_ was watching, she lifted her wet hand to her mouth and licked her fingers clean. The taste was strong, musky, and much more appealing than Aspasia had expected—immediately, she wanted more. 

Kassandra moaned appreciatively at the sight, stirring beneath her as if contemplating taking control, only stilling when Aspasia laid a stern palm on her collarbone.

“Your mistress has orders for you,” she said, sliding the palm up and around the back of her _misthios_ ’s neck, digging her nails into the sensitive nape.

Kassandra grinned ferally up at her, teeth glinting in the moonlight. “I am yours to command,” she said, chuckling lowly as Aspasia pulled her in for a kiss.

And then there was nothing but the bed and the empty room and the night ahead, and no one else but them—the _misthios_ and her mistress.

—

Several days later, Aspasia received an invitation to attend a symposium arranged by Hermippos, a well-known Athenian comic playwright. Apparently, he had finished writing his most recent play and wanted to celebrate. It had been weeks since last Aspasia had set foot from her villa, and she did not particularly want to go, but after some thought, decided to attend anyways. Since Kassandra’s interference in her self-sabotaging downwards spiral, she had felt more balanced and lively. It would be good for the various politicians, sophists and _hetaerae_ who had no doubt also been invited to witness her in fair health and light spirits.

For her part, Kassandra had been more than dutiful the past few days, bringing Aspasia platters of food and _amphoras_ of wine without need for request, lingering by her elbow as though eager to complete her every whim, and keeping her own usual sighing and complaining to a minimum. Aspasia tried in vain to tell herself she did not like the extra attention, but could not help but regard Kassandra differently from before, after what had passed between them the other night. 

Indeed, something had changed. What behavior she had considered before in the _misthios_ to be irritating or impertinent, she now found charming and attractive. Rather than wish she had hired another, far more disciplined warrior to protect her, she now could not imagine any other woman by her side, nor ever bestow upon them the trust she had gifted Kassandra, and that which her _misthios_ had given her in return. Aspasia, always a cold, practical woman, felt like a foolish girl on the cusp of discovery.

The morning of the scheduled symposium came, and when the sun was high above in the Athenian sky, Aspasia took leave of her villa, taking only two guards along. With _misthios_ also in tow, dressed in her usual servant’s _chiton_ , they navigated the busy city streets and arrived at Hermippos’ villa in the midst of celebration. Aspasia could hear the rabble from down the way, and wondered how many inside were already drunk and reeling.

Distantly, a dropped cup rang loudly from within the party, and a sudden surge of fear struck like a snake. Aspasia paused just outside the gates, her breath abruptly rattling in her lungs. Her mind began to race— _the Cult members could be anywhere, they could be anyone, they could be watching her right now_ —and then a warm hand touched her elbow, breaking her free from terror’s cold grasp.

“You do not have to go,” Kassandra said quietly, looking faintly concerned. Her thumb stroked the inside of Aspasia’s arm in a subtle gesture of affection. Aspasia relished it and steeled herself.

“No. I will not let my fear control me.”

At the guard’s questioning looks, Aspasia straightened and stepped confidently forward. The men stationed themselves at the gate to wait, while she and Kassandra walked inside together. 

Aspasia’s paranoia was calmed somewhat by the familiar sight of many of her usual associates, scattered about the sprawling property, Sokrates and Herodotos among them, chatting amiably near the luxuriant gardens. The two noticed her arrival and at once came to greet her, having noted her recent absence from such festivities. Aspasia took strength in their kind camaraderie. Hermippos himself was delighted she had come, rushing out into the yard and ushering her through the front door personally. 

“Come in, come in!” he said, sounding excited and already half-drunk. “Aspasia, you have graced my humble abode with your very presence! This way, please. Your attendant may join mine in the kitchens, yes?”

Though it would be considered rude to refuse, the suggestion still rankled Aspasia. She had wanted Kassandra to remain close by, but perhaps it would appear odd to have such a big, rough-looking servant lurking at her elbow in someone else’s villa. After a noticeable pause, she flicked her hand at Kassandra, effectively dismissing her, though she also made sure to give the _misthios_ a nod as a sharp look passed between them. 

_Take care_ , Kassandra’s eyes seemed to say, though Aspasia no longer felt such trepidation. Hermippos was harmless, and there were many people scattered throughout the villa. She was safe here. A quiet side street and her villa in the dead of night were one thing. Only brazen fools would attack a bustling symposium filled with potential witnesses.

Kassandra disappeared into another room while Aspasia joined the crowd and made her rounds. As Sokrates and Herodotos had done in the yard, a great many guests exclaimed their delight at her attendance. Aspasia recognized many, Kleon—of course—among them. She talked for a time with a choice few, discussing the latest turn of Athenian politics and observing the goings-on. Protagoris ranted with other sophists and Alkibiades made a brief appearance, grabbed two good-looking attendees, and disappeared. It was as if she had never left.

Throughout the afternoon, Hermippos returned again and again to Aspasia’s side, seeming oddly intent on keeping her happy and entertained with discussing his latest play. Aspasia tried to appear interested, but she had never found much time for plays. She suspected the playwright had some sort of political favor in mind he wished to request from her and found herself wishing he would just get around to it rather than attempt casual conversation. When she ran out of wine, Hermippos personally fetched an _amphora_ to pour her a fresh cup.

“My newest vintage,” he said proudly, handing it to her. “I hope it is to your liking.”

Aspasia took a sip. It was a bit too sour for her, but she smiled gamely enough and drank more. Relieved she liked it, Hermippos’ perpetually hunched shoulders relaxed, and he did not bother her much longer.

The second she was alone, however, Kleon appeared.

“Aspasia!” he declared loudly, as if surprised to find her there. Aspasia was forced to hide her scowl with another gulp of the too-sour wine. “How good it is to see your lovely face once again. Tell me, have you been ill recently? I can think of no other reason you might neglect your duties these past few weeks. Athens needs you, as I am sure you already know.”

Aspasia took another measured sip and smiled blankly. “I simply had other matters to attend to,” she said in a flat tone. “Do not fear, I will be back in the Pnyx in due time. I trust you and the others will not completely dismantle everything my husband and I built for years in the matter of only a few weeks, yes?”

Kleon flinched at the underhanded insult, laughed nervously, and gave her a smile just as fake as her own. “Fear not. We will be more than pleased to have you back. I am eager to hear your views on many matters when you return.”

They chatted awkwardly enough for a few minutes longer, though it was strained and filled with hidden barbs directed at one another’s vulnerable spots. Speaking with Kleon always made Aspasia’s stomach clench, and this time, it was no different. The room was growing warm and stuffy from all the guests, and at the first possible opportunity, she drank the last of her wine and made up an excuse to go find more. Kleon, thankfully, let her go without protest. 

Fanning herself, Aspasia followed a cool breeze to an empty side room with a balcony rather than rejoin the raucous crowd. She felt a bit flushed, and only once the wind brushed her face did she realize how hot she was. Sweat prickled her brow and her stomach felt tight and upset, though the clenching had nothing to do with speaking to Kleon now. No, this was something more. 

_Could it be…?_ Aspasia thought with a rising panic, then reminded herself she had eaten nothing since arriving at the symposium—

—but she _had_ drunk the wine Hermippos gave her.

Aspasia's heart dropped. Hermippos had seemed so intent on her from the moment she'd arrived, practically forcing that wine on her, and now she was ill, and it only seemed to be getting worse…

Kassandra—she needed Kassandra!

She whirled for the door and stumbled at once to her knees. Suddenly her head was swimming terribly. She swayed forward, gasping for air. She tried to shout but couldn’t, her tongue gone numb and fuzzy. In a panicked attempt to dispel the wine still sitting in her stomach, she jammed her fingers into the back of her throat and retched. The wine came out in an acrid gush, soaking the front of her robes, and she coughed and spat and felt no better. Struck by a wave of dizziness, she slumped, and the world around her grew dull and indistinct. 

The very last thought that went through her head was of her _misthios_ downstairs, blissfully unaware of their enemies crowding ever closer. Then there was nothing.

—

When Aspasia woke, she was on the floor of a room she did not recognize. Her head throbbed viciously, as though someone had struck her with a club, though her stomach no longer hurt so badly. The wine stains on her clothing were dry, meaning it had been some time since she fell on the balcony. She could twitch her fingers but little else. 

As her mind sluggishly began to clear, her eyes darted about, taking in all manner of details: the room she was in was small but finely made, empty, flanked by torches and several narrow windows, the red-stained sky glowing just beyond, the darkening sunset marking many hours past the beginning of the afternoon symposium. Beneath her, the floor was cool, an intricately patterned, exquisitely carved marble of the finest quality. When she could at last turn her head, she saw through a nearby open doorway mighty columns as thick around as four men joining hands lining massive walls, as well as the shadow of an enormous statue, looming overhead. Aspasia squinted—Athena, perhaps?

 _The Parthenon_ , she realized dully, and felt her body go utterly cold with horror. She was in a back room of the Parthenon, where her husband had been found only months ago, splayed before the statue of Athena, murdered in cold blood. Oh, gods.

At once, she struggled to move, and noticed the numbness seemed to be wearing off. She could now clench her fists and bend her knees, though it did little good; coarse rope bound her wrists and ankles tightly. These _mal_ _á_ _kes_ were not taking their chances, it seemed.

Belatedly, she noticed she was not alone in the Parthenon—through the open doorway, she could see a number of ominous guards clad in strange, black and purple armor marked with insignias of an open eye, as well as a small group in black robes, assembled in a circle, speaking in hushed, urgent tones, their lowered voices bouncing around the high-ceilinged, low-lit chamber. 

Cult members, she knew at once, and felt a blast of chilling fear. Through bleary but quickly sharpening eyes, she noted some were not wearing their masks, and flitted her focus from face to face, adding names and identities to the ones she could, memorizing those she could not—she was stunned but not surprised to note there were notable members of Athenian politics and business among them. Others, she guessed, were trained killers and distinguished soldiers, clearly the ones who had carried out the multiple swift, skillful attacks on Aspasia’s life.

Among those gathered, she recognized Elpenor, a snake of a politician and businessman, known for always attempting to play both sides of the field, and Brison, a rich, spoiled son of a famous Athenian artist. And there in the back was the playwright Hermippos, the coward. So the wine _had_ been drugged. _Mal_ _á_ _ka!_ Of the group, he appeared the most afraid, casting constant paranoid glances over his shoulder every few seconds, as though fearing discovery at any moment.

One of the figures shifted and swept their gaze over the room she was in, and with a gasp of horror Aspasia recognized Rhexenor the Hand, a well-known Athenian _strategos_. He was a fearsome soldier in their army, a faithful man who had killed dozens of Spartans on the battlefield.

He was also Kleon’s lapdog. For such an honorably revered man to have joined so terrible a cause seemed impossible, unless—!

“She is awake,” Rhexenor said, and as one, the group fell silent and turned toward the open doorway. Aspasia froze as the figures shifted and then drew apart, allowing one of their number to step forward in front of the rest. At the sight, Aspasia’s breath caught in her throat, her heart seizing with cold betrayal.

“ _You_ ,” she hissed.

Kleon the Everyman took another step forward, then another, and did not stop until he had entered the small room and stood just before Aspasia’s prone form. If she could move, she would kick him now. She might have even spit on his boots, if her mouth were not fuzzy and stale from the receding poison. Instead, all she could do was rise to a shaky elbow and glare.

“Traitor,” she snarled weakly.

“I am a traitor to no one,” Kleon replied, with all the confident self-righteousness of an utter madman. Dangling from one hand was his Cult mask, white marked with red. Painted with the blood of innocent Athenians, no doubt. “Least of all you. I serve the people of Athens and no other.” 

“And so you kill Perikles?” Aspasia snapped, her outraged fury dampening her rising fear. “The Father of Athens, the greatest city in all of Greece, who built what we are now from the rubble of what had been? And now you kill me, too, who wishes only to bring us even higher, to greatness?”

“Yes,” Kleon said with sheer conviction. “With you gone, we shall bring about a new democracy, a democracy of Kosmos. And from Attika we shall grow until there is no land in Greece or all the world who has not heard or follows our teachings. Our numbers are small but our hands far-reaching. Many have heard of us in hushed whispers. Now we will be a shout! When they discover your body here tomorrow, laid out in the same manner in which they found the great Perikles, they will fear us even more!”

So, then, they _were_ attempting to copy her husband’s murder. The symbology was sickening. “My husband _respected_ you,” Aspasia spat. “Zeus knows you were not his friend, Kleon, nor mine, but if he could not do so, then he would have trusted _you_ to lead Athens to glory, not to ruin! Wake up, you fool! The Cult does not care for what you want! You cannot control it! It will only consume you!”

Kleon’s face grew hard and cold. He raised his mask and donned it, his glazed, ice-blue eyes regarding her from empty sockets. “I knew you would not understand, Aspasia. I would have you know that in the beginning, I had hoped perhaps you would agree with our… methods. That you might even choose to join us. Now I see I was wrong. You will not listen to reason. I am sorry it had to be this way, but it is for the greater good. For Athens, and for Kosmos.”

Sudden tears burned Aspasia’s throat. “Tell me. Were you the one who slit his throat?”

Kelon said nothing, and Aspasia knew then she had her answer.

“Make your peace,” said Kleon, and with that, the now hooded, masked figure of her husband’s murderer turned and strode from the room, shutting the door behind him. 

“Guard the door. Begin the preparations,” she heard him bark to the guards. Two noisily stationed themselves outside her room while the others left the chamber with boots hitting loudly against the marble floor. Kleon’s strict, militaristic footsteps followed. There was silence, and then the remaining group of Cultists began to argue anew amongst themselves in low, muffled voices.

Aspasia slumped, though not with relief. She was not dead yet, but surely not because Kleon might change his mind. Most likely, he was simply waiting for the rest of the Cult members to arrive so Aspasia’s death could be used as some twisted ritual to bond them together in their dark purpose. _Mal_ _á_ _kes!_

Completely awake now, Aspasia tried to come up with some sort of plan. She had to escape. Perhaps she could work her bonds free and run for help, though she was sure she could not fit out the narrow windows and the only door to her room led directly into the Parthenon, which was filled with Cult members. Maybe if—

She heard a faint chirrup and jumped with a soft cry. Twisting around, she saw a familiar golden eagle fluttering to perch on the nearby sill. When it saw her, it chirped again. 

“Ikaros?” she whispered, not wanting to alert the guards outside the door.

Oh, Zeus. It _was_ Kassandra’s bird. Aspasia’s heart leapt. The bird seemed to be looking about, cocking its head this way and that with obvious intelligence. It gave Aspasia one last chirrup, then pivoted and took flight, disappearing from the window, taking Aspasia’s hopes and heart with it.

“Kassandra,” she whimpered.

Time passed slowly. From the muffled sounds in the next room, more Cult members were arriving. The guards at Aspasia’s door exchanged duties with another pair. All the while, Aspasia listened as hard as she could, braced on her side and rubbing her wrists and ankles raw and bloody in her attempt to loosen her ropes. If her _misthios_ was truly coming, the woman would not last long against so many opposing forces. Aspasia needed to do all she could to get to Kassandra before then, so they could avoid a one-sided battle and flee to safety—fighting four enemies at once had been near suicidal; to face an entire army was nothing more than madness.

To think, some months ago she would not have cared if Kassandra put herself in harm’s way to shield her. She would have _expected_ it, even. It was what she was paying for, after all. Now, the idea of even one Cultist, let alone two or three dozen, bringing the fierce woman harm made Aspasia shake with fury and fear. She had paid the _misthios_ to protect her, not die for her. She could not stomach the thought of losing her, not now, not after everything that had passed between them.

Some time later, her limbs sore from her attempts at freedom and her head aching from the terror coursing through her veins, she heard a commotion outside the door. Listening closely, she marked several familiar voices of the Cultists, though none were Kleon. It sounded as though they were still arguing about what to do with her, their tones a mixture of resolute and unsure. Kleon, of course, had already made his intentions to kill her clear. By allowing her body to be discovered by the public in the same manner in which her husband’s had, it would render her death symbolic and impactful, paving the way for the Cult to establish great influence and power amongst the people. 

By the sounds of it, however, other members were not so keen on the idea. Some wished to simply kill and disappear her from the city in due haste, wary of increased patrols of Athenian soldiers, no doubt notified she was missing and searching frantically for the culprits. Others even suggested letting her go to avoid scandal, or kidnapping and spiriting her away for ransom. It seemed a topic of much debate, though Aspasia was not in the least flattered by such attention.

One loud, booming voice grew suddenly closer, and Aspasia went still. It was a man’s, harsh and deep and tinged with a perceptible edge of cruelty. She heard the guards at the door stiffen to attention, the butts of their weapons clanking on the floor.

“Come, come!” said the rough, braying voice, sounding almost jovial. “We wish to see the prisoner. This fellow here does not believe we’ve actually captured the _mal_ _á_ _kas_ bitch!” He guffawed meanly and clapped someone hard on the shoulder. 

There was silence, as though the guards were mulling it over. Aspasia waited, a cold sweat sliding down her neck. Finally, one of the guards said, “Kleon does not wish her to be harmed before the ritual.”

“Yes, yes,” blustered the man. “I shall not touch a single hair on her head. I swear it.” 

Despite the oath, Aspasia shivered madly and squirmed backwards, away from the door, her body beginning to tremble with uncontrolled fear. How could she escape now?

The door to the room opened, and two robed figures with white masks marked with red stepped inside. Cultists. One was broad and stocky, his robed body fat with muscle, only his thick, blunt hands visible. The other was tall and heavy shouldered but not so wide, moving with a predator’s grace to close the door firmly behind them.

“You see, my friend?” the big man boomed, waving one of those meaty hands at Aspasia, sprawled helpless on the floor. “The mighty Aspasia herself, brought so low! Did I not tell you the Cult of Kosmos is capable of anything, brother? And yet you doubted me! Ha!”

The other figure said nothing, merely gazed down at her in silence. Unable to meet their eyes, Aspasia could not help but cower there on the floor as the two figures stepped closer.

“Kleon has great plans for you,” spat the big man, and suddenly drew a sharp knife from his robes. “As I said, I will not touch a single hair on your head. But perhaps I will take a few fingers before the final act, for all the trouble you have caused us. Or would you rather an ear, my lady?” Laughing maliciously, he made to kneel beside her.

Aspasia did not have a chance to be afraid—instead, she found herself abruptly focused on the second figure’s hands. They looked terribly familiar somehow; broad and bronzed and strong, almost like—

Suddenly the taller figure grabbed the shorter, one of those strangely familiar hands shooting beneath the red-marked mask and clapping over the big man’s mouth, muffling his shout of surprise, while the other seized the fist holding the knife. Aspasia heard the crunch of breaking fingers. The big man squealed and let go, and the stranger grabbed the knife and immediately stabbed the man in the throat with one short thrust, blood burbling down his robed chest.

Aspasia buried her own scream at the gory sight, her throat locked into silence. Within seconds, the man was dead, and the masked figure eased him downwards, his heavy body slumping to the marble beside Aspasia.

The masked figure stepped forward, knife in hand.

“Kassandra,” Aspasia nearly sobbed with relief.

Kassandra removed her mask, revealing her beautiful, worried face, and knelt beside her. Within seconds, she cut Aspasia’s bonds and checked her over briskly, _tsk_ ing at the bloody chafes at wrist and ankle and stroking her disarrayed hair back from her cheeks. 

“You’re unharmed?” she asked intently, voice hushed. She looked a tensed wolf, seconds from exploding into action, its packmate threatened by foul hunters.

“Yes,” whispered Aspasia, trembling with a combination of relief and dread. Her _misthios_ had found her, but now there was no way out but to go back into that den of jackals.

“Shhh,” said Kassandra, and brushed her thumb tenderly across Aspasia’s damp cheek. She kissed her, then, and Aspasia could have wept for all the ways that made her feel—happy and grateful and terrified and weak. “I’m sorry,” Kassandra breathed against her. “I promised they would not harm you, and now they have. When I realized you had gone missing at the symposium, I nearly—” She paused and composed herself with visible effort. “Do you know who took you?” she asked in a quavering voice.

“Hermippos,” Aspasia said at once. “The playwright. He gave me poisoned wine. Kleon is here, too. I think he is their leader. Oh, Kassandra. You cannot fight them, there are too many! How will we escape?”

Kassandra scowled but did not panic. Knowing they had little time, she handed Aspasia the dagger she had just killed the man with and unsheathed her broken spear from its usual place at the small of her back. 

“First, let us deal with the guards. Pretend you are still bound.”

Helping Aspasia back down to the floor and arranging her so she covered the new pool of blood, Kassandra hauled the big man’s body to one side, then crouched near the door. Spearhead in hand, she gave a short, sharp whistle.

“What’s that?” muttered one of the guards outside, puzzled by the sound. “I’d better check.” 

Aspasia quickly caught on—Kassandra wanted to deal with the guards one at a time. Playing along, she went limp on the floor, eyes on the crack under the door. Feet appeared, and she went still.

A second later, the door opened, admitting not just one, but _both_ guards into the room at once. They peered down at Aspasia in confusion, who could not hide her look of complete horror as the door swung shut behind them. 

Time seemed to slow to a lazy trickle. Aspasia’s heart had stopped, breath trapped in her lungs as she gazed numbly upwards, and then Kassandra struck like a snake, lunging at the nearest guard and stabbing him through the neck with her spear. The other saw and reacted immediately, raising his weapon as if in slow motion and opening his mouth to shout for help. Kassandra was still struggling with the first guard, who refused to die easily, thrashing in her powerful arms like a desperate animal caught in a snare. In another moment, they would be discovered, and—!

Aspasia lurched forward and upwards, stabbing the other guard in the gut with the dead man’s dagger. Time snapped back into its normal flow, the guard bending double over the blade, a pained rush of air leaving his lungs instead of a hue. A split second later, Kassandra, finished with the first man, grabbed the second and wrenched his neck with a nasty crack, killing him. Both bodies slumped to the floor, dead.

“Quickly,” said Kassandra, and stripped the dead Cult member of his robes, holding them out to Aspasia. Frozen on the floor with her arm still outstretched—oh Zeus, she had killed a man just now!—Aspasia forced herself to move. It would not be long before the guards’ absences were noticed. The robes were bloody and far too big, but she put them on without protest. 

Satisfied, Kassandra found herself a sword from one of the guards and hid it beneath her robes, wiped the blood off her spear and tucked it in her belt, then took Aspasia’s hand and helped her to stand, pulling her against her side. “Whatever happens out there,” she said with quiet emphasis, “stay behind me, understand?”

“Yes,” Aspasia said breathlessly, and allowed her _misthios_ to place the dead man’s mask over her face.

Kassandra donned her own borrowed mask and together, they left the room, making sure to close the door swiftly behind them. Through the eyeholes of her stolen mask, Aspasia could see the Cult members gathered nearby, still arguing amongst themselves and paying them no heed. Their numbers had swelled since last she’d noted. She counted thirty heads, with more fearsome-looking guards scattered about the massive room. Beyond the wide windows high above, the dark of night had spread, and the Parthenon’s many braziers had been lit, throwing flickering red light across the marble floor, as if for a special occasion. 

“Let’s go,” Kassandra whispered, and began to walk brazenly forward, not toward the group of milling Cultists, but toward the nearest exit, located a ways past them. Aspasia swallowed thickly and followed, her free hand clenched tightly around the hilt of the dead man's bloody dagger still in her grasp, hidden by her billowing sleeve. Her spine felt like ice the further they stepped, but soon enough they had passed the bickering group without incident.

"Some of our numbers have gone missing," one of the Cultists was saying harshly to another, voice rising into a strained shout. "Someone is _killing_ us, and we know not—"

The rest of his cry was buried by others, but Aspasia knew at once they were talking about Kassandra, and how her disguised _misthios_ had been picking off their numbers with every assassination attempt on her mistress. If the _malákas_ fools knew the very culprit they were discussing stood in the room with them that moment...

She and Kassandra did not break stride. There was still some distance to the Parthenon's entrance, and freedom, but—

Hearing a wet sound, Aspasia glanced behind her and cursed when she noticed she was leaving a light but noticeable trail of bloody drips behind. Her robes were soaked with the dead man's blood, but obviously removing them now would be too conspicuous. _Mal_ _á_ _ka!_

Then, to her mounting horror, one of the Cultists noticed the trail and said, “What is that?” loudly to the others, halting their conversation.

As if knowing they were moments from being caught, Kassandra’s body began to tense, her shoulders bunching in anticipation, the broad hand gripping Aspasia’s tightening painfully and their calm walk becoming more of a hurried rush in an attempt to flee before someone could shout at them to stop—

And then Kleon appeared, standing not a dozen feet before them, flanked by half a dozen guards, forcing them to a sudden halt. He was wearing his mask, but Aspasia knew it was him, could feel the dark aura of malice, insanity and wickedness pouring off of him, and trembled with fear like a wet fawn just born on dew-laden grass.

It seemed almost immediately Kleon knew something was wrong. Beneath the holes of his mask, his cold blue eyes narrowed, darting from the disguised Kassandra and Aspasia standing stock still in front of him, to the bloody trail winding behind them and the guards missing outside the nearby door. At once, his focus snapped back to them with intent, and Aspasia saw the moment their ruse failed, her heart squeezing with dread.

“It seems we have a traitor amongst us!” Kleon declared in a booming voice, drawing the attention of all in the room upon Aspasia and her _misthios_. Kassandra swore under her breath and subtly nudged Aspasia behind her as the guards flanking Kleon spread out in a semi-circle around them, hands on the hilts of their weapons. Aspasia’s stomach plummeted. Now what? Kassandra was only one woman—how could she expect a single _misthios_ to protect her against so many?

Upon Kleon’s announcement, cries of astonishment arose among the Cult members. Some appeared outraged, others moments from bolting. It was all Aspasia could do to hold her breath and halt her terrified quivering. The sudden idea to give herself up in exchange for her _misthios_ ’s life seemed terribly tempting, but the moment she tried to release Kassandra’s hand to do just that, the other woman’s grip tightened more than ever, keeping her in place.

“Traitor?” Kassandra replied in a voice that did not waver, lifting a hand to gesture at the massive room around them. “This place is filled with traitors. You will have to be more specific.”

Again, Kleon’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. He looked Kassandra up and down once more, slower this time, but could not seem to place her and stepped threateningly closer, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Who are you, then? Give us your name, _brother_.”

For a moment, her _misthios_ was silent, as though contemplating their next move. Then she shook her head, sighed, and removed her mask, facing Kleon with a grim expression. 

Kleon recognized her at once, blinking with obvious bewilderment. “I know you,” he said. “You are that—that _servant_.” He chuckled darkly. “So desperate to save your mistress, are you, slave?”

Despite the circumstances, Kassandra grinned amiably. “Who else will pay me?” she joked. “And though I may be desperate to save her, I will have you know I am no slave.”

“No?” said Kleon, frowning and looking wary.

“My name is Kassandra of Sparta,” her _misthios_ said loudly, so all gathered in the Parthenon could hear. “If you do not recognize my name, perhaps you will recognize this.” With that, she drew her broken spearhead and held it out to the side.

At first, Kleon did not react, his eyes clouded with confusion. Then one of the other Cult members gasped and hissed, “Leonidus’ spear!” and Kleon’s eyes went wide with shock. 

“You—!” he said. “But we—we killed you!”

Aspasia’s heart shuddered with the gravity of those words and what they admitted. It made sense; Kleon was more than fifty years old, putting him of an age to have been there that fateful night when Kassandra’s mother was killed and she and her brother tossed from the mountain. For all they knew, it was _his_ hands that had committed the foul deed, and from the sounds of increasing gasps in the group amongst them, others here had also been present.

“So, you _do_ remember.” Kassandra’s grin twisted and turned brutal and cold, like a feral beast baring its fangs just before it struck. “I have been waiting a long time for this.”

Kleon spread his hands mockingly, as if to impress upon her the direness of their situation—outnumbered and at their mercy. “For what, girl? To die at last by the Cult’s hands and join your family?”

Kassandra’s eyes sparked. “No. This.” Her hand flicked casually upwards, and the next thing Aspasia knew, Kleon was staggering backwards, Kassandra’s broken spearhead jutting crookedly from his throat. Trying to scream, he slumped to the floor and began to seize. Unable to look away, Aspasia watched in utter shock as the cruel man died before her very eyes, gurgling in agony, perhaps the same way her husband had, all those months ago. 

The room went entirely still and silent but for Kleon’s last weakened gurgles and kicks. In the blink of an eye, Aspasia’s husband’s murderer was dead, and two quests for vengeance had been closed forever. The moment Kleon went still on the floor, blood pooling silently around his head like a foul black effulgence, she felt, for a brief few seconds, entirely at peace.

Then, as if a trance had broken, the room erupted at once into sheer pandemonium.

“ _Seize them!_ ” shouted Rhexenor, taking command now that his superior had been slain. The shocked Cult guards, visibly rattled, unsheathed their weapons with ragged cries. The masked Cult members reacted differently—though some stayed to fight, producing clubs, knives, or swords from beneath their black robes, others turned and ran for their lives, disappearing from the Parthenon into the night like rats breaking from an unearthed nest. 

In seconds, Aspasia and her _misthios_ were surrounded by a ring of bristling enemies. Kassandra was forced to rotate constantly, keeping Aspasia carefully behind her at all times. She took her stolen sword in hand and brandished it high. 

“You have one chance!” she shouted. “Let us go, or die here like the dogs you are!”

“Kill her!” Rhexenor roared, ignoring the threat.

Looking only slightly disappointed, Kassandra snarled, “Have it your way, _mal_ _á_ _ka!_ ” 

One guard, braver than the rest, stepped forward with weapon poised at the ready, and Kassandra met him with force, roaring like a mighty bear, her sword swinging with such strength it knocked his own blade away, sparks flying as it bounced across the marble floor. Kassandra’s sword plunged itself deep into his chest, killing him instantly, and the second he slumped, she kicked him with her sandaled foot, propelling his body off her blade to smash into another guard behind him, knocking him over as well. 

Aspasia, like that day on the quiet side-street, and again on that frightful night in her villa, was rendered in awe of her ferocious _misthios_. Never had she seen such brutally efficient killing, such intense focus. The Cult guards seemed similarly cowed, several visibly paling at the gruesome display of superior might.

As if to bolster them, Rhexenor attacked with a mighty war cry, his sword flashing in the torchlight. Kassandra spun away, keeping Aspasia safely behind her and swinging wildly at the men bunched at their rear, forcing them back. Realizing this put them closer to Kleon’s cooling body, Aspasia acted quickly, tearing off her mask and dashing it at the feet of the closest Cultists. The mask shattered loudly, the men jumped, and Aspasia risked darting forward to snatch Kassandra’s spear from Kleon’s throat. It was stuck fast—she heaved, and with a gruesome sucking sound, it released.

A Cultist lunged for her, and Aspasia shrieked, “ _Kassandra!_ ” in alarm, scrambling backwards and nearly dropping the spearhead to avoid the thrust of a sharp pike. Her _misthios_ reacted instantly, spinning towards her and knocking the pike away with her sword. Aspasia tossed her broken spear, and Kassandra caught it in her free hand and stabbed the Cultist twice in the chest before kicking him back. 

“Stay behind me!” Kassandra reminded her with a firm shout, and Aspasia obeyed, clutching her stolen dagger in sweaty hands.

Now armed with a weapon in either hand, sword and spearhead flashing in the torchlight, Kassandra fought more fiercely than ever. Rhexenor again tried to advance, and Kassandra retreated and kicked a nearby brazier over with an explosion of smoke and flames that set two Cultists on fire but also caught the tail of her own robes ablaze. The Cultists ran off, screaming and blundering about in agony, arms pinwheeling before collapsing on the ground while Kassandra ripped the burning robes from her own body and threw them at a rushing Rhexenor, catching him up in the thick material. 

Snarling, Rhexenor hacked through with his sword as Kassandra spun to slash at the Cultists nipping at their heels. Aspasia had to struggle to remain safely behind her, tripping again and again over her too-long robes. Growing desperate, she copied Kassandra and quickly pulled them off. In a flash of inspiration, she threw them on the sizzling coals of the spilled brazier, catching them alight before slinging them ablaze at the crowd, who shouted and fell back.

On and on they fought, the battle ebbing and flowing like a tempestuous ocean. For every Cultist or guard Kassandra killed, another replaced them. Standing back to back with her _misthios_ , Aspasia could feel as Kassandra’s hard, powerful body tensed and surged as she spurred their attackers again and again, refusing to give them ground, moving constantly to keep Aspasia from danger. She could feel every strong, precise swing of her battling _misthios_ , her wild dodges and spins, the bone-jarring hits as the spearhead or sword found solid flesh. She could also feel every time Kassandra was hit in turn, the sharp hitch in her breath as their enemies’ blades made their mark, and prayed to the gods every time that they might survive this night.

As they spun, snarling like wolves surrounded by a pit of snakes, Aspasia saw the bodies of Cultists littering the Parthenon floor, more every time they turned. Men roared. Weapons clanged. Blood splattered. The air grew heavy with the scent of sweat, death, and burning cloth.

A Cultist lunged cravenly while Kassandra was turned away, and Aspasia felt a surge of outrage, not for herself, but for the other woman—how dare someone try to stab her _misthios_ in the back! Instinctively, she slashed her bloody dagger in defense. The assailant gasped and retreated warily, nursing a slashed wrist. Aspasia recognized the simpering hunch of their shoulders and knew at once it was Hermippos, the _mal_ _á_ _kas_ coward who had poisoned her.

“Try again, and I will kill you,” she hissed.

Hermippos slunk back, as if ready to flee, but another Cultist seized him by the shoulder and pushed him forward. Bullied into action, Hermippos came again, and this time, Aspasia darted forward to meet him, surprising the man. Before he could dodge, her knife came up and sank deep into his unprotected neck, killing him almost instantly. Jerking the knife free, Aspasia held it aloft as a warning to whoever else might try next to hamstring her _misthios_ , the surrounding Cultists visibly taken aback. 

_You think I am not afraid, when I fight those who have come to kill you?_ Kassandra had said to her. _Of course I am afraid of death. Always. For myself, but also for you._

Aspasia remembered those words, and felt her own limb-numbing terror racing through her veins and collecting in her heart. Every time she had been attacked before now, in the quiet Athenian side-street and deep at night in her villa, she had frozen in place, allowing that fear to rule her into inaction. Yes, she was afraid, she thought. But rather than reject her fear or attempt to ignore it, she at last accepted it for what it was, and in so doing, took what strength from it she could, filling herself with a renewed purpose. While she could not fight as Kassandra could, blade against blade in a battle of strength and skill, she could at least keep her _misthios_ ’s flanks protected, even at the cost of her own life. She was not a frightened doe any longer, hunted by baying hounds, but a fierce lioness, desperate to protect its mate.

For hours, it seemed, they fended off their attackers. Aspasia was able to defend their backs for a time with her wildly slashing dagger as her _misthios_ dealt with the enemies before them. Whenever the deluge became too much, Kassandra would hear her cry out or feel her jerk in need against her back and spin them to take control of the assault, allowing Aspasia a chance to rest before joining the fight anew. Soon her hands were slick with blood, barely able to keep hold of her stolen dagger, limbs grown weary and strengthless. How much longer could they continue, until Hades came to claim them?

Still, not once did Kassandra stop, or falter, or even waver. What glimpses Aspasia could catch took her breath away—her _misthios_ was a storm of her own, weaving through the attacking men like a god made flesh, Athena herself descended from the heights of Mount Olympus for war. At times she almost seemed to glow golden, her spearhead flashing sharper than any blade, a divine weapon forged to repel evil.

Dimly, struck by a haze of numbness and fatigue, Aspasia realized with rising bafflement that there abruptly seemed to be only a handful of enemies remaining, though how could that be possible? Two against thirty, no, forty—none could survive such odds. And yet the floor was littered with corpses, and Kassandra no longer had to spin at all to keep them defended. 

Facing them now were only three men—a guard, one masked Cultist, and the doggedly determined Rhexenor. Kassandra, who at last had begun to show signs of intense fatigue, was panting hoarsely and bleeding from scores of shallow cuts and slashes littered all over her heaving, sweat-soaked body. Though none were life-threatening, Aspasia was greatly pained to witness them, though she had not come away without injury herself—twice now she had been cut by Cultist blades, once to her arm and again to her thigh. Both hurt terribly and wet her limbs with hot streams of blood, but Aspasia forced herself to ignore them.

Rhexenor, bleeding heavily from a stab wound on his side, gathered himself for what appeared his final charge. Kassandra, gasping for breath, similarly tensed, and the two threw themselves at each other like two great boulders crashing from towering mountains. Kassandra stabbed with her spear—Rhexenor caught her fist in his and held her fast. Snarling, Kassandra swung with the sword in her other hand, forcing Rhexenor to defend the strike, but the instant he shifted, she released the sword, clamped her newly freed hand over the one Rhexenor had wrapped around her own, and bulled forwards with all her strength, driving her spear into his chest with one penultimate thrust, killing him then and there.

Bellowing in fury, the last guard sprang upon the exhausted _misthios_ , swinging a brutal-looking mace overhead, but before he could strike her, Aspasia had leapt upon his back in a red-hazed frenzy and stabbed him once—twice—three times—in quick succession, her last, desperate attempt to save Kassandra. The guard moaned and slumped like a felled tree, bringing Aspasia down with him to crash heavily upon the floor. 

Sucking harshly for air, Aspasia stood shakily, head spinning. Her limbs were trembling madly. The fight was not over, but Kassandra was only one woman, and she had already killed more than three dozen men single-handedly. Down on one knee, her _misthios_ gasped for air, unable to even stand any longer. With only one Cultist remaining, Aspasia placed herself limping in his path. If he strived to kill either of them, Aspasia would make sure he came along as well to meet Hades.

Something about her wild eyes or her blood spattered face stilled him. The Cultist’s determination seemed to waver, then crack, and suddenly he whirled around and ran the other way, throwing his weapon to the floor. Surprised, Aspasia could do nothing but watch him go. Dully, she realized that if he escaped, he would take with him all leads for the other Cult members who had fled earlier, and nearly cried aloud in dismay.

Suddenly there was a hiss, and a _thump_ , and the man fell to the floor with a pained cry, an arrow protruding from his leg. 

“I got him!” a shrill voice declared. Aspasia’s mouth fell open as Phoibe appeared, leaping down from one of the Parthenon windows, holding her bow over her head triumphantly. “Did you see that, Kassandra? Just like you taught me! I bet you’re glad I didn’t stay with the horse like you said, aren’t you?”

Stunned, Aspasia turned and regarded her exhausted _misthios_ with tired rebuke. “You brought a _child_ with you to save me from a den of murderers?”

At last catching her breath, Kassandra shrugged and stood with a grimace, sheathing her spear and tossing her bloody sword away. “Seemed like a good idea at the time,” she panted goodnaturedly, behaving as though they had not just narrowly avoided death and slayed an army in the process. “And look, she left him alive for us. No doubt he will be eager to tell us where the rest of his friends are, yes?” Giving Aspasia a tired but cheeky wink, she limped across the room and tied the moaning man up with his own belt, then whistled sharply.

With a loud neigh, her horse, Phobos, rude as the _misthios_ herself, galloped from the street outside right into the building and up the stairs to Kassandra, hooves ringing like bell peals on the marble floor. Kassandra clucked at him soothingly and slung the limp, groaning man across his back.

“Phoibe,” she instructed sternly, the girl regarding her with open adoration and the most sincere determination. “Take this man to the Athenian Polemarch. Tell them what happened and that he should be questioned, understand? And tell the soldiers we are here. Have them send help.”

Utterly serious with her new duty, Phoibe gave Kassandra an appropriate Spartan salute, then grinned brightly and said, “This is the most fun I think I’ve ever had!” She leapt on top of Phobos and took the reins in hand, grinning down at her mistress. “Aspasia, I am happy you’re alright. You can scold me later at the villa if you like.” Smiling, she heeled the horse off, whooping with delight when he jumped down the stairs with a shrill whinny.

Aspasia had to blink back sudden tears. After what had happened with Perikles, it had been a long time since she had seen the young girl so lighthearted. It made a wonderful change to the scared, sullen thing that had haunted her villa until recently. Her _misthios_ had done that, she knew, and found she was sincerely grateful.

Kassandra returned to Aspasia and helped her to her feet, both groaning with the effort. Clearly, her _misthios_ had put on a brave front for the girl, and was just as hurt and exhausted as Aspasia, if not far more so, for all the effort she had expended. Aspasia was nearly aghast—that Kassandra had killed so many and yet survived boggled the mind. Who, exactly, had she hired that day in the prison? Athena reborn? 

“What about you, my lady?” Kassandra asked her with a smirk. “Do you need someone to carry you home?”

Remembering that day in the side-street, Aspasia gave a short sound of amusement. “I think, this time, I will walk,” she said, though she did not refuse the politely proffered arm, leaning heavily against her _misthios_ as they limped together down the bloodstained marble steps of the Parthenon and into the bustling city beyond. 

Within moments, relieved Athenian soldiers were shouting for others to cease their searching and surrounding the two of them in a clamor, calling for bandages and water and all manner of aid. 

Everything happened very quickly afterwards, the rest of the night becoming a blur of movement and orders and reassurances. Hippokrates appeared shortly to tend their wounds, tutting over them like a disappointed parent, and was joined before long by a terribly relieved Sokrates and Herodotos. 

Aspasia’s head was spinning as they were shortly cared for, Kassandra many wounds cleaned and dressed and Aspasia’s wrists smeared with soothing cream, the slashes on her arm and leg bandaged tightly. Everyone was asking questions all at once and she could not think. She answered what she could, the Athenian soldiers dispatching troops to the houses and properties of Cult members she could recall fleeing from the Parthenon.

Soon she was swooning with exhaustion. Phoibe had arrived, finished with her task of delivering the live Cult member to the Polemarch, and sat with Aspasia, holding her mistress’s hand in her littler one, glaring fiercely at anyone who questioned her too harshly. Aspasia took what strength she could from the girl, though it was quickly becoming a struggle to keep her eyelids from drooping, utterly exhausted by her ordeal.

Suddenly, Kassandra stood before her. Aspasia smiled weakly up at her from her seat on a streetside marble bench, profoundly aware she owed the woman her life and more, and then grew grave when she noticed the somber expression on Kassandra’s blood-spattered face.

“What is it?” she asked. Anything—she would give this woman anything, after all she had done for Aspasia.

“I must go,” Kassandra said simply, and Aspasia’s heart clenched. Three words was all it took to silence the most well-spoken, influential woman in all of Athens.

Kassandra did not mean _go_ , as in, _I will be back in a moment._ She was leaving Athens. For how long, neither of them knew. Aspasia understood. Kassandra had achieved only a part of her vengeance for her family, killing over three dozen members of the murderous Cult who had taken everything from her years ago. Now, armed with new knowledge, she had to find the rest of the vile rats gone to ground, hiding in their foul dens all across Greece, and deal with them accordingly, and the faster she acted, the better.

A part of Aspasia had expected it, though not so soon or so bluntly. She had wanted a proper goodbye. She had wanted so many things. Aspasia knew she was a practical woman. She did not often waste her time imagining things that could not be. And yet, she could not help but to have hoped… 

“I—” she tried, and found herself suddenly emotional, tears springing to her eyes. How could she ever begin to thank Kassandra for everything? _Drachmae_ could not even begin to cover it. 

“Don’t go,” Phoibe said to the _misthios_ , her voice a whimper.

Not taking her eyes off Aspasia, Kassandra placed a gentle hand on Phoibe’s head. The girl sniffled, then flung herself forward and wrapped her arms around Kassandra’s waist, holding her tightly for several long seconds before tearing herself away and stumbling off with a quiet, dejected sob. Aspasia ached to comfort her, and by the look on Kassandra’s face, this hurt her far more than any injury she had taken tonight.

Slowly, Aspasia stood. Her limbs were shaking from fatigue, and the cuts on her arm and thigh hurt terribly. Still, she was Aspasia, wife of the great, fallen Perikles, and so she stood with shoulders set and head held high as she bid her _misthios_ farewell.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, her voice breaking as it never did, not even in the Pnyx, giving speeches before crowds of thousands. "Thank you, Kassandra. For all that you've done."

“Wait for me,” Kassandra replied, her voice pitched so low Aspasia almost could not hear her over the hubbub surrounding them. Unable to speak, Aspasia swallowed and nodded. As though uncaring of who might be watching, Kassandra stepped forward and cupped the nape of her neck in her broad, battle-roughened palm. Aspasia shivered at the feel and tipped her head back as Kassandra leaned down and kissed her—her lips were chapped and tasted of sweat and blood, but Aspasia returned the kiss fiercely, feeling as though she were being torn apart. She wanted it to last forever. She wanted—

She wanted her _misthios_ to stay.

And then Kassandra was pulling away, her expression pained but determined. With one last heavy look passing between them, her _misthios_ turned away and whistled for Phobos. Without looking back, Kassandra leapt atop her horse, dug her heels into his flanks, and was gone.

—

Four months later, there was a visitor to her villa.

“My lady?” called Adani, disturbing Aspasia from reviewing her latest batch of delegatory scrolls. It had taken time, but these past few weeks, Aspasia had been making good progress on furthering Athens’ strides toward true democracy. Never had her mind been more clear or her words more precise. As a result of her dedication and with the help of countless others similarly intent on such lofty goals, Athens was stronger than ever before, and Aspasia was confident her husband would have been proud to see the path his beautiful city had been set upon, destined toward greatness.

“Yes?” she asked, looking up from her work. Surely it was not already time to eat again. While she had been making sure to take her meals regularly, a quick glance from beneath her luxurious cloth awning marked the sun at only mid-afternoon.

Adani was grinning fiercely, hands threaded behind her and bopping up and down on her toes like an excited girl. “There is someone here to see you.”

“Oh?” said Aspasia, frowning, and tried to recall if she was scheduled to meet with anyone at this time. Perhaps Sokrates had come to discuss his latest round of infuriating rhetorical questions again, as he had made a habit of doing lately, or maybe Herodotos had returned from his latest venture in Megaris or Korinthia, and was eager to bring her news of their fellow nations. “Who—?”

Suddenly, a small shape streaked by in the courtyard, and she heard Phoibe give a loud, overjoyed shriek, crying “ _Kassandra! You’re back!_ ”

Hearing that, Aspasia’s heart seized in her chest. Why was it again three simple words that could manage to break her? For weeks now, she had prayed to the gods, for a great many things. To keep Athens strong. To watch over Phoibe. And to bring her _misthios_ back to her.

At last, it seemed they had answered.

Clearing her throat delicately, Aspasia stood, attempting to appear as if she were not in a rush, even going so far as to take the time to properly arrange her untouched scrolls for later, though by the growing smile on Adani’s face, she had failed to appear as nonchalant as she wished.

“Thank you,” Aspasia said, dismissing her maid. She had looked a fool in front of the other woman quite enough, and did not wish an audience for this particular reunion. Alone, she stepped from beneath the awning and into the Athenian sunshine, approaching the front gates of her villa at a measured pace, her heart beginning to race in her throat. Gods. She had not even seen her _misthios_ yet, and already her scalp was tingling just from the thought of her presence. 

As she rounded the walkway's final hedge and approached the gates of her villa, she could hear Phoibe's rushed chattering growing louder and louder, the girl's words tripping over one another in her haste to release them all at once.

“—where have you been all this time, Kassandra, we missed you so much—it was crazy here after you left—so many people visited and asked questions and Aspasia made them all leave—she was in bed a lot at first because she was so tired but she's doing much better now—and I’ve been practicing my archery every day now—and—"

Steeling herself, Aspasia reached the gate. She had thought herself well-prepared for this day, but still her breath was snatched from her lungs at the sight that greeted her.

Standing before her was her _misthios_ , dressed not in a servant’s plain _chiton_ and sandals, but in a true warrior’s armor, wearing a finely-tooled leather breastplate, worked metal gauntlets and stolidly sound boots meant for battle. Tied across one shoulder was a draped cloth of spun crimson edged with gold upon which Ikaros the eagle perched. A thick leather belt strapped around her waist held a sheathed Spartan _Xiphos_ , the handle superbly made, a full quiver of master-fletched arrows hanging just beside. Bristling over her wide shoulder was a beautiful horned bow in a crafted case, and below it, at the small of her back, was her broken spear—fixed now, the shattered wood of the hilt replaced with a fine metallic handle, shaped perfectly for the grip of broad fingers. 

It was not a servant, standing here, Aspasia acknowledged completely, but a fiercely brave, staggeringly powerful, godly-skilled _misthios_ who had killed all those who intended her mistress harm and saved her life more than once. She looked, in a word, _magnificent_.

Aspasia found she could not speak, so taken by the sight. Kassandra, smiling fondly down at Phoibe, noticed her standing there helplessly—her grin deepened, an eyebrow arching suggestively, and Aspasia found herself coloring with embarrassment, umbrage stirring in her chest. Four months away, and her _misthios_ had not changed at all—still an impudent brat to her core. 

Aspasia noticed, then, behind her, the villa was deathly silent, and turned. It seemed she had an audience after all, her many maids and even some of her guards gathered in the yard, staring, open-mouthed, at the _misthios_ , and no wonder, as she had lived among them for many weeks under the guise of a modest, but poorly behaved servant. Apparently, judging by most of their shocked expressions, their ruse had worked better than Aspasia had thought.

Clearing her throat, Aspasia gave them all a sharp look and they reluctantly dispersed, whispering fiercely amongst themselves. Surely, the giggling behind her back would begin again soon as well. Aspasia was not exactly looking forward to it.

“Phoibe,” Kassandra said lightly, ceasing the girl’s endless excited rant. “Go fetch your bow and set yourself up in the yard. I want to see your progress.”

“Oh, yes, Kassandra, right away!” Phoibe practically shouted with delight, and went dashing off. Ikaros gave a chirrup and took wing to follow, leaving Aspasia at last alone with the other woman.

For the first time in four months, Aspasia looked upon her returned _misthios_ , eyes tracing slowly up and down her body with care. She appeared, for the most part, unharmed, her body hale and hearty as ever, though weary from countless unknown battles and strife. Every part of her was familiar and utterly welcome to Aspasia's lingering gaze. Within seconds, Aspasia ached for her, but did not dare assume anything. That Kassandra had returned to her villa did not mean she had come for her, though Aspasia could not stop her heart from quickening in her chest at the idea.

“At last, the _misthios_ returns,” Aspasia mused aloud, trying not to make her pleasure of Kassandra’s return too obvious, though surely she failed spectacularly, her lips tugging upward despite her best efforts to still them.

Kassandra’s own smug grin softened into a warm, affectionate smile that made Aspasia’s heart melt. “I found I could not stay away,” she said boldly, as charming as ever.

Ignoring that, Aspasia asked quietly, “Did you fulfill your duties, _misthios_?"

Kassandra gave her a perfect Spartan salute. "I did, mistress."

Like a balm, relief eased Aspasia's worried soul. The Cult of Kosmos was gone at last, its roots pulled from the ground and the dead plant discarded entirely. "You found them, did you?” she murmured.

“Every last one,” said Kassandra, with a sort of resolute finality that gave Aspasia great joy. Kassandra, it seemed, had finally achieved her quest for vengeance. Thank the gods.

“And how do you feel?” she asked, grave but curious.

Kassandra shrugged. “At peace, yet also troubled. I am sure you understand.”

Aspasia did. Thoughts of her husband’s sorry fate would never truly leave her. Still, she slept far better now, knowing the snakes who had brought about his demise had been culled. That Kassandra had hunted down even the furthest dregs comforted her even further.

“You did not have to return,” Aspasia found herself saying, wanting, for some reason, to impress that upon her _misthios_. “You are not my slave. You may go wherever you wish.”

Kassandra’s smile turned teasing. “Are you not happy to see me?”

“That’s not—” Aspasia snapped, her temper flaring as it always did when confronted with such an infuriating woman. “I simply meant… Your job is finished, _misthios_. You were not… obligated to return.”

“Ah, but that is where you are wrong,” said Kassandra ruefully. “You see, a _misthios_ ’s work is never done.” She stepped closer, and Aspasia had to steady her breath at her sudden nearness. To have Kassandra looming so close after their long separation, and wearing such fierce armor and bristling with weapons besides, gave her a delicious, uncontrollable shiver. “Did you miss me?” Kassandra asked, her voice low and rough as it always got when they were alone together.

“Is there nothing better you can do with your time than annoy me?” Aspasia said archly, attempting to resist her charms. If the _misthios_ tried to kiss her now, she was not sure if she would slap her or drag her inside for something decidedly different.

Kassandra laughed. “Not at the moment, no.”

Despite herself, Aspasia laughed as well. Then, breaking the moment, she asked, "What will you do now?" 

Looking thoughtful, Kassandra turned her tawny gaze out towards Attika's hazy blue coastline, and the frothy ocean caps beyond. “One day, perhaps, I think I would like to have a ship, and sail the seas at my leisure. Behold all the wonders and beauty that Greece has in store for me. Go on adventures and help those in need.” Her eyes turned wistful. "Visit Lakonia, eventually."

Aspasia raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh?” It sounded a grand idea. Already, she could picture the _misthios_ charging about the many islands and coastlines of Greece atop her mighty horse, Phobos, like some sort of fantastical character in a tale.

“Yes," said Kassandra. "One day.” She smiled suddenly and said, "But I am sure you know how very expensive ships are. I will have to work for quite some time before I can afford one, you see.”

Despite herself, Aspasia grinned and felt herself flush at the idea of how the _misthios_ might earn her funds, the filthy lech. “Whatever shall you do?”

Kassandra laughed brashly, casually placing her battle-worn palms on Aspasia’s hips. The familiar weight of them made Aspasia bite her lip to hide her smile. She could not get enough of those hands. Just the memory of them had her squirming. Her heart felt full and straining. “Surely, I will figure it out.” One of those lovely hands rose and brushed a lock of hair behind Aspasia’s ear.

“Oh?" Aspasia said again, mock-serious. "You will not grow bored, here on my villa, with nothing to do all day?"

Kassandra shook her head. "I am sure I will find something to occupy my time. Besides, I have grown to like the view of Athens very much." Ever the lech, she leered down at Aspasia, adding, “Or, should I say, one view in particular—”

Laughing, Aspasia hit her lightly on the chest, knocking the hands off her hips and taking one into hers, pulling the other woman through the gates and into the villa proper, eager for a calm evening of good food, better company, and lively conversation—

—and at the first opportunity, Kassandra pushed her behind a bush, hiding them from sight of the guards and servants, and kissed her deeply.

Aspasia moaned aloud at the first touch and clutched at her hard shoulders with sharp, desperate fingers. A wild thrill shot through her when her _misthios_ picked her up with barely a heave, the hard pressure of her armor against her delicate body and the harsh jut of her many bristling weapons upon her soft skin a daring assault upon her senses.

“You _did_ miss me,” Kassandra teased, pulling away for a moment to boast, as always.

“Shut up,” Aspasia growled, and yanked her mouth back to her.

They took so long behind the bushes, Phoibe had to come find them, chastising them soundly for their mussed clothing and hair and hurrying them along to her archery demonstration. Apologizing through her laughter and feeling flushed and giddy as a girl, Aspasia let her _misthios_ take her by the hand and steer her back toward the walkway.

“Later,” Kassandra said warmly in her ear, with a promise in her voice that sent a happy, hopeful shiver through Aspasia, and together, they walked on, the doe and her wolf, reunited once more. She could not wait.

It was true, what Kassandra had said:

The work of a _misthios_ was never done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no ragrets


End file.
